


The Call of Wolf's Blood

by ode_to_an_inkwell



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Knotting, Masturbation, Omega Verse, Porn with Feelings, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:02:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22054513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ode_to_an_inkwell/pseuds/ode_to_an_inkwell
Summary: After the dragons take King's Landing, Jon Targaryen presents as an alpha. He must travel to the North in pursuit of his mate, and finds a queen who will not bend.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 249
Kudos: 664





	1. Proximity

**Author's Note:**

> This is NOT everyone's bag, so please heed the tags. I'm really playing around with omegaverse dynamics here.  
> This is a Stark-centric story, but Jon grew up in Essos with Viserys and Daenerys. This affects his characterization. Dany never married Drogo here, so dragons remain extinct.  
> I promise a happy ending to my Jonsa fam, but the angst is what makes this story fun! Trust me to steer this fic through kinkville whilst prioritizing consent and gender equality (a fun task for this trope).  
> I hope you enjoy!

Viserys squinted from his place at the head of the small council table. “I don’t understand.”

The maester stared pointedly at his own joined hands. Jon glanced over at Dany, her brows nearing her hairline.

“This change likely came upon the—the prince,” the maester inclined his head toward Jon, “as a result of battle. Bloodlust and aggression could have caused him to, ah…present, as they say.”

Only a month since the dragons fell on King’s Landing, and it felt like longer. The smell of burning corpses still filled the air.

“And what happens to our nephew once this ‘change’ is complete?”

Her temper more closely resembled her brother’s every day. Though Dany was always meant for Viserys, his cruelty had turned her heart away long ago.

“He is—at present—an alpha who has no…” the maester cleared his throat. “There is no mate for the prince.”

“He merely needs to bed a woman?” Dany reached across the table for Jon’s hand. “That’s the cause for his disappearance?”

‘Disappearance’ she called it. It felt more like a chill, the kind that numbs your fingers, creeping its way into his heart.

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple, your grace. This is a result of the prince’s wild blood. He needs to find his… _mate_ in the North. Otherwise, his health could decline.”

Her gaze fell. Jon knew that meant she was disappointed, but he couldn’t move to comfort her as he once might have done.

“I should have suggested it myself,” Viserys said.

Dany turned on him. “Suggested what, exactly?”

He leaned toward his sister. “We need to send an emissary North, don’t we? Our nephew is one of their own.”

“I thought you were finished making him do your dirty work.”

Viserys held his hands out in Jon’s direction. “The mutt needs a mate!”

What he chose not to say, what they all knew, was that Viserys was never finished. Not with either of them.

“What family do I have in the North?”

The maester turned to Jon with some surprise. “Many Starks have died in the past wars, but I believe a cousin still remains to you. Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell.”

“Is this the woman who calls herself the queen in the North?” Viserys asked.

“The same, your grace.”

Viserys’ smile almost looked warm as he turned toward Jon. “Write to your cousin. Tell her of your affliction and request guest rights while you look for your mate.”

Three sets of eyes watched Jon, waited for him to respond. He nodded.

“While you’re there,” Viserys added, “you must convince Lady Stark to bend the knee.”

With the city won, Jon owed his uncle nothing. Even so, he needed the new king’s permission to leave. To head North. To try and feel something again, even if it was only a woman’s warmth.

“I will do as you require.”

***

Sansa sat at the desk in her solar, reading her cousin’s letter once more when the horn blew. The corner window which overlooked the courtyard hung open. She went to peer down at the noise below.

A retinue flooded through the gate. A rider in black slipped from his mount. He didn’t have the Targaryen look, but none other could be the prince. From her position she saw broad shoulders and dark hair tamed into a knot. As she stared, a deep musk wafted up to the window—an alpha’s scent, layered with tree resin and fig. She found herself leaning out the window to catch more of it.

The prince turned. Heat crawled up her spine as she studied his face from afar. It was a fair face, all hard planes and symmetry. He searched the courtyard, sniffed the air. His gaze flicked upward until it bore into her.

Sansa shut the window. She took boiling water from the hearth and brewed a tea with weirwood root. It would do nothing for her pains, but perhaps it could offer protection against the prince.

He waited in the great hall. She walked to her place at the head table and stood while her people bowed and curtsied.

The prince waited through all this, unmoving, his dark eyes fixed forward.

“Winterfell is honored by your presence,” Sansa said.

He gave an efficient bow with a predator’s grace. “The honor is mine. I must thank you for allowing me to stay in your home.”

Sansa held back a smirk. The invader knew his courtesies, at least. Unfortunately, that might hinder things—one could hide behind courtesy, after all.

“Allow me, now, to show you to your chambers.”

It wasn’t the sort of thing Sansa usually did, but she didn’t trust this man with her people. Especially so when every omega present stared at the prince with feral desperation. Most of the alphas had died in the War of the Five Kings, her brother included. The wolves were hungry.

The two strode toward the family rooms side by side. He was her family, after all. The proximity felt like suffocation. Resin and fig rolled off him, filling her nostrils, and the fever closed in with nowhere to escape. His next step brought them closer, caused his shoulder to brush her own.

She jumped away, tried to hold in the shudders that racked her body.

The prince turned with a curious expression. He stepped nearer, invading her space. Sansa’s back hit the stone, her thighs damp. He leaned into her.

“I would thank you not to scent me,” she managed.

Those straight brows lifted, though he made no move to draw away. His eyes, black from a distance, boasted the color of a summer storm.

“I am here to find my mate,” he intoned softly.

Sansa pinched herself. His voice tugged at a string currently laced through her ribcage.

“It will not be me.”

He peered at her lips as if his response lay written there. “Forgive me, cousin.”

“I withhold my forgiveness until it is earned, prince.”

“Please.” He took a small step back. “Call me Jon.”

Sansa moved past him while she still could. He’d come so close to pressing her against the wall. Uncertain of her ability to withstand such a thing, she fled up a staircase and he gave chase after her.

Surely her heat remained hidden from him. Weirwood root was an old secret of grandmother Lyarra’s.

“Here you are,” Sansa said.

Jon paused before the door and gave her a nod. She folded her hands behind her back, dug her nails in.

“Thank you, cousin. I look forward to a deeper acquaintance between us.”

She inclined her head, allowing the sentiment. When he pushed his door open she escaped to her own chambers at last.

‘Cousin’ he called her. Two insults in one, whether he was astute enough to realize it or not. The prince refused to acknowledge her position, and worse pushed his familial claim on her. Perhaps it was the way of an alpha—to press their claim. But this man, this commander of a foreign army, used the only tether that bound them as a leash.

She was _his_ blood. His.

The room spun. Sansa clawed at her corset, released the chain at her neck. His scent still clung to her hair.

The bed caught her fall as she gathered her skirts. Stormy eyes watched from the inside of her lids while she touched the slick on her thighs. She relieved the ache until her furs were soaked with it.

***

Jon lay covered in his own seed.

Moments after his cousin’s steps faded, he fell into the feather bed and slipped himself free. He hadn’t even bothered to bar the door.

That _scent_. He smelled her before his feet even hit the ground.

He had to have her, to take her inside his lungs and his mouth until he no longer felt like himself. And for a triumphant second he’d thought he found the source. His cousin’s lovely face hung out her window as that blood and honey scent swirled around him, drowning out thought and sound.

When they walked together, though, her smell was faint. Something was there, something earthy and pleasing, but it was muted compared to the others. The maester called them omegas, said his presence would excite them.

What a pity that first scent hid from him now. What a pity Lady Stark remained unmoved.

Two islands of blue in an ocean of cream, surrounded by locks of flame. He pictured her expression when he’d trapped her between the stone and his body. Her lips had parted so prettily and her warmth had licked at his flesh.

The combined memories of the blood honey scent and Lady Stark’s mouth brought him to completion three times.

Jon cleaned himself at the wash-stand. Just as he fixed his breeches a knock came. He pulled his hair back before bidding the visitor to enter. It was a man, slight of frame.

“The queen has invited you to sup with her. Unless you wish to take your meal alone.”

Jon rose from the bed without thought.

“Take me to her.”

If she couldn’t be his mate, the least he wanted was his cousin’s friendship. Though why she would take kindly to the man sent to steal her crown he couldn’t rightly say. She had to know his agenda.

A short journey through the halls brought him to a giant oak door. He steadied himself before making his presence known.

Viserys would stop at nothing to gain the North. He’d use his family and murder innocents and burn Winterfell to the ground if he deemed it necessary.

Lady Stark must see reason. If not for her own sake, then for her people’s. Jon didn’t know if he could further stomach the smell of burning bodies.

She stood at a window, her cheeks pink from the wind’s bite. She’d changed from her constricted gown into robes embroidered with pearls and iridescent shells. In the firelight her eyes appeared so clear in color that one might see through them to her thoughts.

“Cousin,” she said.

Her voice was sharp, but he liked the familiarity. He finally took in the table between them, set with food and drink. He walked to the head chair and pulled it out for her. One of her eyebrows twitched before she took the offered seat.

Jon took the chair closest to hers and poured wine for them both. She gave a dainty sip without looking his way.

“Do you wish for me to call you something else?”

“If you refuse to call me by my title,” she began, cutting her mutton into tiny pieces, “then I would prefer for you to use my name.” The glance she spared him could freeze a hot spring. “I take no pleasure in falsity.”

“Are we not cousins?”

“We’re not close.”

A smile came to his lips unbidden. “What if I desire to be?”

Sansa set her cutlery down with delicate hands. “If you desired my friendship then you wouldn’t insult me.”

The silence pooled between them. Jon considered his next words, but realized he enjoyed goading her.

“Are you always so quick to take offense?”

“Are you always deliberately evasive?” she shot back.

He laughed at that. He’d never met anyone so possessive of themselves. But perhaps her self-possession arose out of necessity. A beautiful woman, after all, must learn evasive tactics or else risk becoming the possession of another.

There was the rub.

Sansa would push him away so long as he fought to invade her heart, her mind, her country. She didn’t wish to be had.

Why did that make the prospect more alluring?

“Make peace with me, Sansa,” Jon said, and she shivered in her seat. “Are you cold?”

He wondered if he might close the window. Sansa ignored his question, though, and raised her cup of wine to him.

“To peace.”

Jon lay in bed much later when it struck him that the numbness had receded.

***

Sansa tossed her furs to the floor in the night and woke to drenched sheets. She’d only been able to sleep after her fingers had pruned inside her cunt. She felt ashamed, hated to admit that she had no control over her body when it came to Jon Targaryen.

He had, however, earned a little forgiveness over the course of their meal. He proved himself a worthy companion—or a thoughtful conversationalist, at least. Though he still wasn’t being entirely forthright, she believed he desired her good opinion.

This didn’t mean she trusted Jon. She hardly knew him to trust him. But when he’d first used her name…

To deny that it had pleased her would be a lie. It pleased her many times, in fact. Thrice before she slept and once before she’d risen from bed.

Sansa dressed in lighter fabrics today, but still secured the chain about her neck. She drank more of the tea while Greyce, her handmaiden, plaited her hair. Then she went to the great hall to break her fast.

Jon sat with the visiting bannermen. That wouldn’t do at all. How many of them would prefer an alpha to rule the North? Sansa stopped at his side.

“Won’t you join me, cousin?”

A muscle in his mouth moved. She turned away before anyone caught her staring at it. The other omegas present leaned heavily against the walls, clenching their knees together. Sansa might be amongst them, if she didn’t have a role to play.

As Jon approached the head table, one of the omegas threw herself in his path. This started a brief frenzy as the rest crowded behind her. His rich scent filled the room, calling them all to expose their necks to him. Sansa held her breath as she watched.

His head inclined only a little. The petite omega arched into him, but Jon backed away almost instantly. The next omega stepped forward. Then the next. He sniffed each one only to reject them all.

Sansa breathed again. Jon made his way to her side, a contemplative look on his face. She leaned toward him so her voice wouldn’t carry.

“Don’t despair. I’ve called for every Northern house to send the unpaired omegas within their lands.” She offered a smile. “You will find your mate soon enough.”

His sigh washed over her face, cool as spring rain against the fever in her blood.

Sansa froze. She became a doe in her predator’s thrall.

Jon watched her with such care that her flush deepened, crawling down her throat and under her dress. His gaze traced that path of heat on her skin. He bit his lower lip. How would the scrape of his teeth feel against her pulse?

Jon leaned a fraction closer, the movement so slight one could miss it with a blink. He breathed through his nose and his brows drew together. Only then did she settle away, full of chagrin.

“I thought I asked you not to scent me.”

“I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what came over me.”

Her breath caught at the timbre of his voice. In this instance, she could not be angry with him. He was merely reacting to her reaction to him. It took her a full minute to recover.

She cleared her throat. “Did you sleep well?”

“I did, thank you. And you?”

“Hm.”

They both picked at their bread and boiled eggs. She yearned to be free of him and dreaded it at once. This ache had but one cure, and it was lost to her. Any comfort Jon could bring came with the price of submission.

She would not be the queen who bent. No matter how the image of kneeling before him sent delicious flutters through her body.

They parted ways soon. Sansa walked the ramparts, observing the flurry of action below. Jon mounted his steed and rode outside the gates. She assumed he went to gather tactical information about the land, learn the weaknesses of the fortress. It was just as well. She needed the distance.

The sharp air cleared her lungs of his scent.

***

Sansa was hiding something.

However aloof she pretended to be, he _knew_ that she was not unmoved. Enough omegas had panted after Jon that morning for him to recognize that flutter of her lashes, that warmth of her skin. It didn’t fit with her muted scent.

He rode to the village near the castle to make sense of it. Wintertown, it was called. If he had hoped to find blood and honey there, he would’ve instead found disappointment. As it was, he did his best to avoid the omegas in the village. He would not settle for anything less than that first scent.

Near everyone was occupied with the business of living, but Jon was able to slow them down with a gold dragon or two. He determined that, of anyone, the smallfolk might be most likely to divulge Sansa’s secrets. Rumors held some truth to them and, with little else to feed their imaginations, smallfolk indulged in the delicacy of rumor.

It should’ve come as no surprise when his informants kept their queen’s confidence. The notoriety of Northern loyalty held up against his scrutiny. Not one person revealed much of interest, nor was there a single negative word said of Sansa. The general consensus, however, gave him a fair sketch of her character.

They loved her. Her people trusted her implicitly, and that said more than any rumor could. She was a competent ruler, as well as a just one. She was spoken of with much admiration, words of ‘the queen’s wisdom’ and ‘the queen’s compassion’ falling from several sets of lips.

What shook him the most—his own dealings with her supported these notions.

These weren’t an ignorant people, blindly singing their queen’s praises. Sansa treated him, a foreign invader, with undeserved compassion. And, though he was loath to admit it, her mistrust of him proved her wisdom.

How many places in the world could boast such a ruler?

What would become of these people if she bent the knee?

That was her fear, he knew. How could an invader know the trials of this land, the needs of her people? It was a fair question. But did she fully understand the inherent danger in refusing Viserys?

All afternoon Jon trailed her movements throughout the keep, though she kept her distance. He did not receive another invitation to sup with her. His disappointment at that was…interesting.

Jon slept very little. He turned his weathered thoughts over and over, trying to find an answer, any answer, that kept his cousin from harm.

He waited in the great hall for hours the next morning, but she never came to break her fast. It took him some time to catch up with her, her scent too faint to track as she hurried from task to task. He might be impressed by her work ethic if her evasions weren’t so maddening.

In the afternoon she disappeared.

It was his only chance to speak with her alone. Jon searched the library, went to the office she used, and finally made his way to her chambers.

No answer met his knock on the oak door. He let himself into her solar, hoping she would forgive the intrusion. Instinct bid him pursue her no matter the cost. Perhaps he was becoming more beast than man, if instinct could overpower his reason.

The room was empty, the hearth gone cold. He nearly turned to leave when he spied a cup at the table. It wasn’t quite empty. From where he stood he could smell the tea, the pleasant earthy scent of it.

The scent he’d come to associate with her.

Before he could speculate much, a sound come from the opposite door—the one that led to her bed chamber.

Jon stalked toward the sound, blood filling his cock. He didn’t understand his body’s response until he pressed his ear to the door.

Breathy moans came from inside. There was no mistaking the sounds of pleasure, no mistaking his cousin’s voice. His eyes slipped shut. He could picture her, legs thrown wide with a delicate hand working between them.

What a wanton creature she was, fleeing to touch herself midday as if she couldn’t help it. Jon didn’t think he’d be able to help himself either, if he were permitted to touch her.

“ _Fuck.”_

His palms flattened against the wood at her obscenity. He imagined the red shade of her hidden curls, barely able to contain his groan. She was there, just beyond the barrier, begging for a cock to fill her.

But how perfect would she feel, with her soft skin and her slim waist?

His hips began to rock slowly as he rutted against the door.

“Jon!”

She cried out to him with such need. It was too much. Cousin, queen, omega or not, he would have her—he would give her what she needed. He tried the handle only to find the door had been barred.

He growled, ready to break it down. Only the sound of her sobs could’ve stopped him.

Enough clarity returned then for Jon to stumble backwards. This aggression, this vulgarity, it wasn’t his nature. It was the beast within. He wouldn’t hurt her.

Sansa’s cries faded as he left her solar and ran back to his own chambers. He stayed there for the rest of the day, desperately trying to sate the beast.

His finger swiped over a swollen bundle at the base of his cock, strange and sensitive. He hissed as he touched it again. Her sobs still echoed in his mind, only now he pretended they were from pleasure. Jon imagined the sweet keening of his cousin as he lay claim to her body.

When his skin was raw he lay in quiet despair. These fantasies could only bring him pain; this desire would drive him to madness.

Sansa had no wish to be claimed.


	2. Tamed and Unbroken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon learns more of the North while Sansa learns more of Jon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the positive feedback! I'm truly happy that so many of you seem to be enjoying this story.  
> This was a fun chapter for me, but I have no idea how you lovely readers will feel about it. Let me know?

Sansa’s sufferings never relented. Jon must have returned from his ride because she could smell him everywhere, his scent chasing her about the castle. And, sometimes, she saw a flash of raven curls from a distance. She needed for that distance to both grow and shrink. She dined alone in her solar, broke her fast alone in her solar, and immediately sought distraction the next morning.

The castellan oversaw a project to reinforce the North facing gate. There were details to go over there. Then she liked to observe Brienne training some of the younger warriors in swordsmanship. After that, Sansa had a pile of letters to read.

Still, that resin and fig musk crept after her. She must have read the same letter ten times over in her distraction.

When the day grew nearly warm she made her retreat.

Sansa put out the fire in her solar, her blood boiling. She drank more of her root tea with such haste it burned her tongue. She only remembered to bar her chamber door by some miracle.

 _Jon_. His curls were lush beneath her fingers. His lips trailed her collar bone. He rutted into her with abandon. She slipped her longest finger inside herself, clenching tightly around it. Her toes curled and she added another. It wasn’t enough.

With the other hand she touched her swollen nub. She moaned, imagining his scent all around her once more. It cradled her, made her safe. The spice of resin and sweetness of fig numbed her pains, sent warmth creeping within her belly. Sansa imagined it was Jon knuckle deep inside her cunt.

“ _Fuck_.”

She’d never sworn before, but couldn’t help it now. His long, rough fingers plunged in and out of her. But she needed more. She added a third finger, but it still wasn’t enough. She couldn’t reach where she needed him…yes, _yes_ , she needed him.

“Jon!”

A rattle broke through her fantasy.

Sansa’s eyes opened and zeroed in on the wiggling door-knob. It was him, of course. His scent surrounded her in reality, not just imagination.

Jon growled.

Her body sprung for him. Sansa caught herself on a bedpost, wrapping her arms so tightly about it that the wood dug into her cheek. Slick gushed from her center and onto the furs. He was right there. He’d heard her, wanted to come inside. Wanted to give her what she needed.

_Come inside, come inside!_

Sansa bit her lip to keep from shouting it. The words evoked another image, one of her cousin reaching his peak while he took her like a wolf.

It was too much. The ache pained her so that she began to sob with need. Her arms shook, but she managed to hold them in place. Jon was so close—she had been _so close._

She heard footsteps then. His scent receded, making it even harder not to go to him, to stop him from leaving her. The door to the hall slammed.

When she eventually released the bedpost her limbs were sore. She entered her solar on tip-toe. His scent still lingered in the air, sending a fresh wave of heat over her.

Would it ever end? Her cousin’s presence, once merely uncomfortable, rapidly approached unbearable.

And what must he think of her? With her omega’s heat hidden, he must assume her to be simply depraved.

Perhaps he’d followed her about so he could overhear her discussions, learn the workings of her mind. Instead he’d learned of her inability to command her own body.

He must think her a joke.

While her cousin stayed as a guest he had every right to wander about the castle. He could send the gathered information back to his uncle, which meant she had to keep a sharper eye on him. She had to keep him closer.

Sansa would have to endure her pains. Now, though, she needed rest.

***

Jon ate alone in the great hall the next morning. He worried for the moment his cousin appeared. Would she hate him? The very thought of her righteous anger brought him shame and, regrettably, desire. His perversions had brought him to the edge of betrayal, one step from tearing his way into her bedchamber.

 _She said my name_ , the beast hissed.

It didn’t matter. He’d seen enough of men taking what they wanted to know the lines between impropriety and immorality. A woman must agree to any exposure of her body, whether that exposure be sight, touch, sound…taste.

He shook his head before the thought could plant itself and bloom.

Sansa was not only a woman, but a lady…a queen, in her own right. Jon was a half-blooded orphan, only a prince by conquest. He’d stolen as a boy and killed before he knew the feel a woman’s touch.

Sansa was owed an apology. He couldn’t blame her, however, for hiding from him.

How many men had done the same as he did? So desperate to get to her that they tried to force their way in? Did any of those men even understand her, or did they only want her name? Her body? Her land?

Jon left the great hall with his stomach turning.

So far as anyone knew, his cousin was the last true Stark in the world. A lone wolf. And he’d come to use her loneliness against her. To wield their kinship as Viserys’ weapon.

When she was ready to see him, he would offer true friendship. A woman so brave as to rule alone deserved a true friend, a piece of family. She deserved to be understood.

The smallfolk hurried about their tasks again that day. Jon moved through Wintertown by his nose. The maester had said he would return to himself once he found an omega to bed. If it were truly that simple then any omega should do. Blood and honey was but a figment, and he needed to stop lusting after Sansa if he intended to do right by her.

He followed a sweet scent into a place of business, two men securing their coin purses as they left. He waited inside, counted to one-hundred before anyone appeared in the front room. A woman emerged from behind a curtain, less than that tied around her form.

“Hello handsome,” she said with a leer. “Would you like a go with me?”

Jon stared at one spot on the wall, his teeth clenched together. “I’m looking for someone in particular.”

She pouted. “I know who you seek, dragon prince. Lucky girl. I haven’t had an alpha cock in…”

Her voice faded before she could finish the thought.

This was the second brothel he’d entered in his life, both visits involuntary. Viserys insisted he ‘wet his prick’ years ago. Jon went inside the Lysene establishment only to leave it rather abruptly.

He sought release now, but not necessarily from a woman of the trade. Then again, did it matter? Perhaps she would treat this as a business transaction without any expectations. He didn’t think he could fulfill any further wishes an omega might have.

But didn’t they call it ‘mating’? Such a term suggested a bond of certain profundity. Could he allow himself to be bound to a stranger?

A new woman appeared. In the shadows she held a passing resemblance to the queen, but as she came closer the comparison was lost. This one had darker eyes, muddier hair that frizzed at the ends. And she had that thick smell of an omega in heat. Something vaguely floral.

If he closed the curtains and took her on her knees, he could pretend.

“What should I call you, milord?”

Jon shook his head. “Whatever you wish.”

She laughed huskily. “That’s what I’m supposed to say.”

Ah, yes. This was routine for her. And he imagined she found much success in her profession.

“What’s your name?”

The woman quirked an eyebrow. “Ros.”

As he nodded she stepped to him, clutched at the tops of his arms. Ros threw her head back so he could scent her more fully. That flowery smell became too much, almost putrid with sweetness. It reminded Jon of the fragrant soaps Dany liked to use.

“It’ll cost extra to knot me, master.”

The words wrenched him from his ruminations. “Knot you?”

She giggled as if he were a fool. “It’s what alphas do. We’ll rut until your knot swells, then it’ll keep the seed inside.”

She spoke of the bundle at the base of his shaft. He was meant to spend inside her?

Jon’s entire body revolted. His babes would be carried in the womb that called to him, by the omega whose scent he craved. He pulled out of Ros’ grip.

“Shh! Not to worry, master. I have moontea.”

A strangled “I’m sorry,” passed his lips, and he spun for the door.

More omegas sought him out as he made for Winterfell’s library, but he didn’t spare any of them a glance.

***

Sansa kept her window open all day. She slept when she could, eased the ache when she couldn’t. Part of her hoped the heat would subside before she had to leave her room again, but it was no use.

Greyce filled the tub with water and helped Sansa bathe, dry, and dress for the evening. Together they selected a blue dress with light fabric and a modest cut. Then Sansa drank her root tea while her hair was woven into a single thick plait down her back.

His scent alerted her before his knock did. The handmaiden opened the door and curtsied.

“Thank you, Greyce,” Sansa said.

Greyce scurried and left Jon alone in the doorway. His eyes were round, soft as a whisper.

“Come in.”

Sansa filled her lungs before he shut the door. She let her gaze explore him while his back was turned. His black tunic was elegant, silver embroidery lining the edges in a neat pattern. She traveled the length of his firm looking arm down to his fingers. They were thick, callused but clean.

Forbidden territory. In fact, it was best she didn’t look at him at all.

Jon strode across her solar, moving so close that for one wild heartbeat she thought he meant to take her in his arms. She abandoned the thought immediately—nothing but romantic nonsense. The air left her lungs when he fell to one knee at her feet.

“I don’t expect your forgiveness. My actions have been unforgivable. Still, you deserve an apology.”

 _Gods_ but his voice was beautiful. Hypnotizing, even. He spoke with a surety that startled her, pausing now as if he expected an interruption. None came.

“I never intended to give offense, yet I’ve done so. I’m so sorry, Sansa.” Her name fell from his lips with intimate ease. “I offer my friendship in the hopes of one day earning yours. I believe it would be an honor, the greatest honor, to—” he cut himself off, his eyes rising from the ground in search of her own. “Please.”

It sounded so sincere. She could never trust such kind words—not from a man. A plague of insects produced a roaring buzz in her head. But her chest…warmth flooded her chest, dripped down her ribs only to seep into her belly.

“Please.”

Jon looked at her like he’d never seen another person before. Caution told her this was another game. If she wanted to learn its rules, though, she would have to play along.

Sansa unlocked her hands and extended one. Jon stared before catching it between his fingers. Her blood raced to meet his soothing touch, transferring the fever from her skin to his.

He brushed his lips along her knuckles, tickling her with his beard.

The walls spun as slick trickled down her thighs. Sansa gasped another breath just as her knees bent.

Jon caught her hips between his hands. They were just as she’d fantasized, strong enough to hold her down or, in this case, up. A groan escaped her throat.

“Sit down, here.”

He set her in the nearest chair where she held her head steady between her palms. His scent was still too close. She opened her eyes to find him sitting on his haunches at her side.

“What do you need?”

“Nothing,” she lied. “I’ve not eaten today, is all.”

“I’ll bring you food.”

The offer sounded so natural she nearly accepted. But she’d been out of sight for too long. Speculation on her absence from meals had likely already spread throughout the castle. And, of course, she didn’t think she could survive an entire meal alone with him.

“ _No._ Please escort me to the great hall.”

Jon rose to his feet, held his arm out for her. Sansa slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow and pulled herself up.

They made their way to the great hall in silence. His arm held her steady, the dizziness staying away so long as she breathed through her mouth.

Arya would’ve laughed to see her now. So weak, hanging on a man’s arm to remain upright. That crooked grin flashed behind Sansa’s eyes, but it was all wrong. Arya couldn’t look like that anymore. She would be a woman grown.

The guests had already been served when they arrived, a few men already deep in their cups. Jon sat at Sansa’s side and a servant set meat and wine before them with a small loaf to share.

Her body craved the nourishment, but rejected the flavor. She forced each bite down with an impassive expression.

“Have you found your mate?” she asked.

They both knew the question wasn’t genuine. She just needed to break the silence.

“I have not.”

Sansa gave him a look of sympathy. “I am sorry for your discomfort.”

His shoulders moved in a dismissive gesture. “The worst of it subsided when I arrived.”

She chewed her lip. His letter had mentioned something of melancholia, though she hadn’t been able to make sense of it.

“The symptoms you wrote of…I’ve never heard of such a case before. New alphas send omegas into an uncomfortable heat, and experience discomfort in return if they remain unfulfilled, but…”

In profile she saw Jon suck mutton juice from his thumb. She looked away as fresh slick pooled between her legs.

“The maester in King’s Landing told me I would fall ill if I did not mate soon.”

She gave a soft snort. “A disgraceful legend.” When she turned toward Jon again they were almost nose to nose. “Alphas are not harmed if they fail to mate. Nor do omegas die if they aren’t knotted.”

The movement of his eyes was nearly too fast to track—nearly. They dropped to her lips, then her breasts before he turned away.

“I only recently learned what that means.”

A flush rose high on his cheekbone. Sansa could have smiled.

“Did your maester not mention it?”

His laughter danced around her, rich and heady. “I’m afraid not. Nor did anyone mention my family history.”

Everyone’s family history was so checkered that she felt it best not to respond. Whatever he’d learned, he would speak of it as the words came to him.

“I stayed in the library today. When I came across a history of ‘the Mad King’ it took me a moment to understand which was referenced.”

Sansa took two gulps of wine in the pause that followed. “I suppose you weren’t taught such things. Some of my earliest lessons were of the Mad King. Robert’s Rebellion, as well.”

“Of course they were,” Jon said, “seeing as our grandfather was burned alive.”

It was the same game as before. ‘Our grandfather’ he said, as if the connection might earn him her trust.

“Yes. The least we could do is remember your grandfather’s crimes against my house.”

No response came. She chanced another look at him. Jon stared down at his plate, one hand resting against his mouth. If he waited for an apology he would decompose in that position.

“And my father?” he asked. “Do you remember his crimes, as well?”

“I remember the stories.”

He sat up at her voice, but still kept his eyes down. Was he submitting himself to her inspection? Did he know what his gaze did to her?

“Do you believe them?”

His eye flicked in her direction, keeping her in his periphery. Sansa couldn’t explain it, but his need for compassion superseded her indignation. She chose to share the kindest truth available.

“I’m not sure. Those stories were created by Robert Baratheon, and I knew him to be a fool. I don’t think anyone knows what truly happened to my aunt Lyanna.”

“My mother.”

She couldn’t question that connection. Was it better or worse for him, having never known his parents? Forever wondering which parts of them pieced him together?

“You have the Stark look,” she said.

Jon’s brows rose wearily. “I used to believe so. I hoped…but you and I look nothing alike.”

Sansa sipped more wine. “I have the Tully look. I’ve always taken after my mother.” She studied his face again before continuing. “You resemble my father, I think.”

He finally broke, turning to meet her gaze. “Truly?”

This cautious longing filled his eyes, the only hint of fragility in all his features. The firelight shown through them sideways, igniting all the colors in their depths. She could only nod. It was the first true connection they’d shared, and neither wanted to break it.

The caution in Jon’s look gave way the longer they stared. He transformed into a beast at her side, hungry for his next meal.

Sansa knew she should leave—flee before she could ask him to devour her whole. Still, she didn’t move.

“My uncle is the same as his father,” Jon breathed. “He has killed for perceived slights. He would move against the North for much less.”

The warning freed her to stare ahead. All she’d heard of Viserys Targaryen were whispers of a beastly temper. The comparison to the Mad King had been made before, but never from the mouth of a Targaryen prince. It should’ve unnerved her. Instead, Jon’s confidence helped to preserve her hope.

“He won’t move against us yet,” she said.

“Sansa—”

“Not when I have his heir captive.”

Jon’s tone dropped just below his breath. “Am I your captive?” The sounds rolled so sweetly from his lips that she had to resist the urge to lean over and taste them.

“Are you captivated?”

He swallowed before he answered. “Quite.”

 _What am I doing?_ _What are_ we _doing?_ Jon needed an omega; he must crave that scent. Yet he’d shown so little interest in them. Only she, the omega hiding her gods’ gift, could boast a small claim on him. Did that mean he had some small claim on her, as well?

No. Absolutely not.

His honesty disarmed her was all. It made her regret her own lies. But what else could she do? They’d been strange to one another just a day before. Only a fool would trust a stranger.

“I think you have much of the North in your blood, Jon. But what of your heart?” She smirked at a new thought. “I should take you to the godswood to find out.”

Sansa finished her wine, set her goblet aside. Jon drank from his own goblet as if to catch up with her.

“Would you teach me to pray?”

She crossed her arms, held her elbows to keep them from shaking. The image of Jon on his knees would serve her well, if only she could make it to her bedchamber.

“I’ve given up prayer,” she said. “My father used to say, though, that you must be honest with the gods. They can see into your heart, and punish those who would try to conceal themselves.”

She stood then, made her way through the hall so she could share her courtesies with the other guests of her table. Her mouth stiffened in its cheerful position. Eyes followed her movements, but she refused to meet them. The effort it took to leave the great hall pulled her nerves taut.

The other omegas were due to arrive in the morning. Sansa fought toward sleep and drank more tea when the sun rose. She was taking more than suggested to suppress her scent, but Jon’s proximity made it necessary. She would run out of weirwood root soon.

***

The old gods were either immeasurably wise or immeasurably cruel. The changes taking place in his body and mind could be a gift, something that bound those of Northern blood together. They could also be a curse. Sansa was the enchantress, empowered by the old gods to torment him with her contradictions. He pondered them while he sat in a hot bath.

She called to him, yet remained just out of reach. She had faith, yet rejected the notion of blind belief. She could be so very kind, yet her speech never lost its edge.

He _was_ captivated, and she knew it without having to ask. Her words unlocked hidden chambers within his heart, spread warmth to the undiscovered countries of his being.

If Jon had never traveled to the North, would fire and blood have been enough? Could he have been satisfied without the discovery of his own contradictions?

He wasn’t meant for satisfaction, it seemed. None of the omegas he’d scented were enough to pull his thoughts away from the unattainable, and every moment a new thought complicated his political agenda.

‘Us’ she’d said. ‘He won’t move against us’. Jon had held his breath then, afraid to disturb the small word that bound them together.

Viserys was no leader. He could not give hope with a word, or inspire loyalty during a feast. He knew only destruction, didn’t even understand how to preserve his own family.

Sansa must have learned self-preservation as a girl. She’d survived a precarious adolescence, and knew enough of survival now to preserve her people over vast stretches of hard land—a task many would struggle with.

Jon now headed to the great hall with opalescent blooms in the hollows of his eyes. Another restless night, another meal alone.

At the next table a group of men spoke of the weather.

“These spring blossoms are ripe,” one began. Jon recognized him as one of the Manderlys who’d ridden with him from White Harbor. “You can smell them everywhere.”

“I plucked one just last night,” said another. “Woman in Wintertown covered in slick because the dragon walked by her.”

The epithet left a sour taste in the back of Jon’s throat. He swallowed a horn of ale to wash it down, struggled to eat anything more though he knew the day would be long.

Covered in…slick? Just from his scent?

A low note hit his ears. Several stood from their meals and made for the doors. Over the din, Jon caught the words ‘arrived’ and ‘omegas’. He followed the others to the courtyard.

He hoped one among the new omegas might do. It was difficult to differentiate sense from sensation whilst he was _unfulfilled_. He couldn’t afford these distractions any longer, not when a kingdom hung in the balance.

A crowd gathered in the courtyard now, bodies pressed around the castle walls as the gate opened to admit the new guests. Riders surrounded each wheelhouse that entered, three of them rolling to a stop.

Omegas, more than a dozen. They could all smell them.

The crowd shifted, eyes bouncing toward Jon. A sort of path formed between himself and the wheelhouses. The gate closed just as the riders began to dismount.

There.

She was here.

He’d found her at last.

Was it her? Blood and honey filled the air, rocked him back on his heels. That rich sweetness with a tinge of bitter metal. Only now it smelled deeper, more potent somehow. Or did it only seem that way because he’d dreamt of it so often?

His chest ached and he realized he’d only been breathing in, unable to stop sniffing the air. Jon released the breaths he’d hoarded, let his lungs deflate only to fill them again.

He took a step forward just as the wheelhouse doors opened. Five women stepped down and met him halfway.

No. No. No. Not her. None of them were her.

He moved to the next wheelhouse. The first woman barely touched the ground when Jon drew her scent in. Pushed her aside, gestured for the next to step down.

The third wheelhouse emptied, its occupants coming to him as if they could sense his urgency.

Twice he stepped back to sniff the air again, just for reassurance that blood and honey _was_ there—somewhere.

The new omegas all smelled sweet, in their own way. The whole crowd of them surrounded him, sixteen in all. He might have felt guilt at ending their hopes with such harsh immediacy. As it was, the pursuit of _her_ consumed him wholly. He sniffed through the crowd several times, then broke past them.

Blood and honey filled his skull.

Jon pulled at the scent again, following its path. It came from his left. He shut his eyes and dragged himself toward her, closer, the scent stronger now. When his body froze up his lids sprang open. The stone wall stood mere inches from his nose. Backwards step. He looked to both sides, then up.

Clear blue eyes stared down in horror. _No…_

Of course.

Jon made for the stairs. By the time he reached the ramparts she’d fled. Her scent caught hold of him still, forced his feet to continue forward. There was only forward, nothing but the pursuit of his mate.

She _was_ his mate—there was no mistaking it.

When he turned a corner he saw her back. She looked around at the sound of his footsteps and quickened her pace.

That was fine. She could no longer hide, so let her run.

A new hallway. He narrowed the distance between them, closing in on her. Then she made a sharp turn. It didn’t matter what she did—her pure, addicting scent blazed a trail so blatant he could find her even if he were deaf and blind. She’d gone up a secret stair.

They neared her rooms when Jon could reach out and touch her hair. His hand lifted of its own accord to grab that fire spun silk and pull her into him. He fought the urge down each time. She ran now, so close to her door.

“Sansa.”

She jumped as if he’d shouted. Turned in place. He stalked forward, head low. Backed her up against the door to her solar. Waited three deep breaths for her to slam it in his face.

Sansa didn’t move. Her balsam petal lips hung open while he fingered the doorframe on either side. Her head fell back against the oak, exposing her long neck to him.

Sweet, sweet girl.

Jon buried his nose in the hollow of her throat, a desperate groan escaping him. Her scent broke him to pieces. Shards fell away until only the most vital remained. He stood forged anew, tempered in her omega’s heat and honed for a single purpose.

Delectable honey dripped past his synapses. It would submerge him if not for that bite of blood, penetrating the waves of pleasure so he didn’t drown.

Sansa sagged in his arms. Jon pinned her to him by the waist, used his free hand to tug her hair over her shoulder. He nuzzled that dip where her locks fell. The scent was so strong there that bursts of light filled his vision. She clung to him now, those delicate fingers digging into his tunic.

“Did you know? Hm?” He nipped her ear. “You’re meant for me.”

Nails scraped at his neck. He hissed, cock throbbing against the laces of his breeches. Sansa’s legs parted for him and he wedged his knee between them. She rocked on his thigh then, eyes falling shut in a daze.

The warmth of her center drenched through their clothes. Jon ran his lips over her fluttering pulse, just beneath her jaw. A breathless whimper sang out to him.

Poor creature. She’d suffered all this time denying her needs. _Yes,_ she needed him. And he burned to relieve her.

Such a shame all her efforts were for naught. His formidable little cousin fought against her own gods to remain free. Though her body would submit, her will was unbending.

“Just do it,” she gasped. “Please!”

He wanted to. The pain in her voice was clear. But there was resentment, as well. Jon took hold of her jaw, brought their faces together so he could distinguish all the shades in her blue. _Gods,_ but she was beautiful. Lovely and fearsome.

If he took her now he was lost. It wasn’t just her body he desired, but her submission. Her trust. If he took her now, her will would not submit to him—it would break.

Jon spoke between his teeth. “When you come to me, sweet cousin… _then_ I’ll give you what you need.”

Confusion, then rage flared in her features. “You bastard!”

“Perhaps,” he murmured. “If the stories are true.”

Sansa hit his chest. He filled his lungs a final time and released her jaw, then her waist. Ripped himself away from everything essential. Like swimming further from shore in the midst of a squall. He stumbled to his chambers, hoped the bed could keep him afloat.

It was up to her to sail out to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol, I'm sorry.


	3. All Things Sacred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Jon meet on hallowed ground and exchange terms, in a manner of speaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for making you all wait! Work has been hectic.  
> Endless thanks for your comments and support--I couldn't ask for a better audience.  
> Some dialogue is subtle here, so be sure to read carefully.  
> I hope this chapter is enjoyable--I promise this is all leading somewhere <3

The maester said her heat was fighting back. She’d suppressed her scent too long, and now it pushed through with added potency. He gave Sansa milk of the poppy, little good it did her. Even in sleep she found no relief.

Jon prowled through her dreams. She ran down halls that seemed to stretch on forever. He always found her, eventually. Pushed her against a wall, a table, anything. She could remember how his hard length had felt against her belly. How she ached to take it inside her. How Jon’s teeth had scraped her ear, the muscle of his thigh pressed into her center.

The intensity of it left her exhausted. She awoke every few hours with sweat dampened skin, a spring of slick flowing from her core.

He was torturing her. Testing her. The dragon prince wanted to see her break.

The breaking point was not far off. Sansa dreamt of him kneeling over her, one hand around her throat as his seed pulsed inside. That time she woke in tears. She’d felt so complete, so safe, only to wake in emptiness and terror.

The next day she confined herself to the bedchamber. A servant brought food and fetched the unopened letters accumulating on her desk. There was still work to be done—even if she felt like her body was turning to ash.

In the evening Brienne came, worried for her queen’s health. Sansa’s request, unfortunately, did nothing to comfort her.

“You want me to…?”

“I fear it’s necessary.”

Brienne did her best to hide her shock, though her mouth formed a pinched line. Sansa’s handmaiden returned then, a length of rope hanging over her shoulder.

“Is this safe, my queen?”

“Perfectly,” Sansa said. “My sword and shield shall be close all through the night.”

Greyce and Brienne shared a look. The handmaiden deferred to the commander of the queensguard to offer counsel.

“I shall always serve you, your grace,” Brienne said.

Sansa sighed. “But?”

Brienne stared at the floor. “Would it not be easier for the prince to defile you if you were restrained?”

It was the first anyone had mentioned of him all day. How disappointing to learn that the castle whispered of the prince’s pursuit of her. Disappointing, but not surprising. The entire courtyard watched him hunt her down the other morning. How could they not speak of it?

In truth, Sansa knew Jon would keep his word. _She_ was the unknown entity. Another night like the last, and she very well might seek him out for relief.

Still, Sansa had to portray confidence.

“I should think he is occupied with the visiting omegas,” she said smoothly.

Greyce shook her head, dropped the rope from her shoulder so she could plop down at the end of the bed.

“Your grace, did you not hear? The prince told every omega to stay away.” At Sansa’s head tilt, the handmaiden nodded. “Just this morning. Ordered all the visiting lords to prepare for their journey home. Said you needed quiet, he did.”

Sansa dug her nails into her palms.

By what right did he command her people? The bit of Stark blood trickling in his veins? Had he agitated her into this state so he might take rule while she recovered?

No, this was no conspiracy. He’d truly seemed shocked to smell her heat, chased her on an alpha’s instinct. And if he wanted to steal the loyalty of the Northern houses, why would he send the lords away? Why not take over her duties and prove his competency for them all to see?

Did he wish to isolate her, then? For what purpose?

To make her vulnerable. If Viserys came now, with the queen indisposed and the Northern armies scattered, he could take Winterfell.

She must master herself. The prince could play his games, deny her and every other omega he happened across. She would break this heat, gods willing, and defend her land to the last.

In the morning, then.

“My orders remain the same.”

Brienne protested with stiff motions, though she said not a word. Sansa stretched her arms out, let her friends bind each wrist to a bedpost. When they finished she could neither seek Jon out, nor touch herself in the night. It only made everything worse when she peaked around nothing, her muscles reach, reach, reaching for that exquisite hardness she knew he could give.

“Thank you both.”

Brienne and Greyce bowed, extinguished the candles, then made to give her privacy.

“Brienne.” The commander stopped at the door, looked back. “Stay out there ‘til morning. No matter what you hear.”

The words only served to further concern Brienne. She nodded, then shut the door. Sansa had no doubt the night would pass safely. She knew her dearest friend would protect her. Still, this panicky fear made her limbs stiffen. The rope wasn’t tied too tightly, but the scratch of it could become agonizing under the right circumstances.

Sansa stared up at the canopy. If only the window were cracked, the room wouldn’t feel so sweltering. But it was best she tried to sweat the fever out.

Moonlight passed through the window as she waited for the poppy to weigh her eyelids down. Already she was eager for the night to end. The dreams would come, then the tears. All she could do was survive it.

_Sansa knelt in the snow just before the heart tree. Jon twisted her hair in his fist and pushed her to her belly. The snow melted against her breasts. He set a punishing pace, rutting her into the ground. She felt his warmth lick her spine, his breath brush her ear._

_“I’ve got you,” he grunted. “You’re mine. Say it.”_

_She shut her eyes, one cheek pressed into the slush. The graze of Jon’s teeth raised gooseflesh all over her body. He would mark her, claim her, even if she couldn’t say the words._

_“Say it.”_

_Sansa moaned at the command, but bit her tongue. Jon stilled inside her._

_“Mine.”_

_Her hips ground up until he stopped her, one arm latched about her waist. While she pulsed around him he started to pull away. Sansa clawed at the frozen ground as he made her empty, their bodies bathed in snow. Only the tip remained now. She opened her mouth to concede._

_“I won’t harm her!”_

_Her? It was just the two of them._

_The snow disappeared, the cold going with it. Where was Jon?_

“I am her kin!”

His voice sounded far away—in the hall, perhaps. But she’d never heard him shout like that before. She shook in her binds, bringing a tingle to her wrists where the rope bit down. His scent invaded her chamber.

Sansa heard the door to the hall open. Brienne’s voice, muffled.

“It’s too late for that!” Jon’s tone made her rub her thighs together. “She’s awake now, and if I leave she’ll…” modesty left the thought unfinished.

Brienne spoke clearly this time. “The queen will bear your absence. I am here to protect her.”

A silence followed. He must have left. A wave of agony rolled through Sansa’s body at the deprivation.

“Jon!”

“She’s in pain!” Even furious, his voice soothed her.

“The queen suffers because of you,” Brienne accused. “I have strict orders to keep _that_ door closed until daylight.”

“Sansa.”

It was quiet, but every muscle in her body struggled to go to him. Nothing could be sweeter than kneeling before him, releasing her body into her alpha’s care.

No. He was not _her_ alpha.

But why did the thought of another pierce her so? Her mind conjured up the image of a stranger body writhing beneath him. She gagged at the thought.

“Go, or I shall be forced to draw my sword.” Brienne said.

“I’ll stay close,” Jon replied—Sansa knew it was for her benefit.

A shuffle of feet, then the door slammed.

Gone. She listened for a minute or two. When it seemed certain he wouldn’t return she broke the silence. Her lungs emptied, and she sucked in another breath. Only then did she hear Brienne banging at the door.

“My queen! Are you hurt?”

“Jon, please! Please!”

The cloak of his scent thinned, exposing her so obscenely to the dark of her bedchamber. Her head swam in the heat, the fear tightening to a ball of hot iron at her center. Sansa wiggled into the furs, fought for friction.

Sleep rejected her the rest of the night. She sweat and lost slick until her mouth grew dry and her skin felt as if it didn’t quite fit her bones. When Brienne finally freed her, she drank until her belly sloshed. Still, Sansa was parched.

***

With every step the pain sharpened, like a dagger pressed into his chest.

From his bed Jon had felt her. She was afraid, then vulnerable. His sweet cousin needed protecting and there was no one more suited for the job.

The lady knight thought differently.

He would have stood there all night trying to ease Sansa’s pains. Just her scent stilled his thoughts—he hoped his did the same for her. He’d sat at her door for an hour, surprised that no guards were posted outside her solar. Leaned back against the oak and dreamt of her.

Of course, a guard roaming the halls kicked him awake. When their voices rose, Ser Brienne opened the door to investigate.

And Sansa cried out to him, just like before.

With the two keeping him from his mate, his vision had darkened a shade. He could end them both for prolonging Sansa’s torment. But the knight’s words cut his anger short.

Did his proximity bring her pain? Even in the books he’d read, very little was said of the omega’s heat. It was caused by an alpha’s presence, but was there no way to alleviate the symptoms?

He couldn’t risk hurting her. Jon promised Sansa he’d stay close, then set to pacing the halls. He couldn’t sleep with his mate in such pain. She was his to care for, his to comfort.

Was that her voice that called his name? He scraped his knuckles over the walls until red trails showed on the stone. Why did the Northern magic have such a claim on their blood? Why did these gods put their followers in such a position?

Sansa endured great pains to keep her people safe. It was something any good mother might do, but it seemed as if her endurance was tested unnecessarily. _Was_ she being tested? Had she angered her gods?

They, neither of them, prayed. Jon was never taught, and Sansa said she’d given it up. Did she not believe her prayers were heard? Or did she hide from her gods? What had she said about prayer? That the gods punish those who try to hide?

He walked all night, sometimes imagining her voice. Her fear pierced him still. After a lifetime of wandering, the darkness gave way to brittle light. He found a bleary-eyed servant to oblige him with directions and made his way out into the morning.

The godswood sprawled around him, vestiges of the winter’s frost still coating tree roots. Jon walked a straight path until he reached the center. An ancient weirwood stood tall, its leaves a bright banner against the sky. He circled the tree until he found its face.

The heart tree. Red resin leaked from its orifices in a shocked expression. Like the first Khal he’d managed to kill. Mouth gaping, blood spilling to his chin. It was how he’d built up Viserys’ army. Killing Khals, taking Khalasars. They hadn’t the money to buy an army; any riches they obtained were put toward the purchase of ships. Still, Jon was an outsider to the Dothraki. He was never meant to lead them, nor to bring them to unfamiliar lands. An entire people displaced, and he was a part of that sorrow.

He understood it better, now that he’d come here. This tree was the same his mother had prayed to—his cousins and uncles and generations of Starks all came here to commune with the gods whose magic pervaded their blood. He was home in the North, as the Dothraki were home in the Great Grass Sea.

Home with his cousin, who wouldn’t let the Northerners be displaced. She would not be the next addition to Viserys’ conquests. Jon fell to his knees before the heart tree.

“I do not deserve forgiveness for the crimes I’ve committed,” he said. This was the only way to begin, this exposure of his weaknesses. “I have despised my actions even as I resigned myself to them. This makes me the worst kind of hypocrite, and undeserving of a place in the world.

“Yet you have brought me here. Called me to be an alpha. I do not understand it, but I am ready to accept my duty.”

A prickle began at his nape, then crawled down his vertebrae. Jon looked around at the empty wood. Then he breathed in her scent, far away but closing in by the second. He bent his head again to redouble his efforts.

“I am meant to help her. But how can she accept my help when she suffers on my account? When my presence poses such a threat to both her people and her person?"

Another breath and she was near. The tide of her scent broke over him again and again, working his lungs hard.

“Ease her pains," he whispered. "If she be so opposed to our mutual desire, then let it fade. Let our bond flourish out of respect rather than lust.” _Do not make her hate me._

“You should leave,” Sansa said.

Jon lifted his head, but did not turn toward her. He breathed through his mouth lest he lose himself to her scent.

“Would you interrupt my prayer?”

“You offend the gods with your pretense,” she monotoned.

Already a spark of discord threatened them.

“I prostrate myself to the will of the gods. It is by their power I am come home.”

He waited for her response with a calm patience. The time Sansa took in selecting her words betrayed her fury.

“Do not claim a deeper relationship with the old gods than that of a recent acquaintance.”

At that he stood, turned to see her erected among the frost. She wore no cloak despite the clouds her breath made in the air.

“What do you know of my heart?”

Her face gave nothing away. “I do not readily believe in the existence of such a thing.”

“Because I am a Targaryen?”

“Because you are a man.”

One step toward her. “Hatreds based on house disputes are sometimes acceptable, but to distrust my entire sex…?”

She scoffed. “I should think it fair. I have been mistrusted my whole life for being a lady as I was taught.”

He held back a smile. She must think him too stupid for irony. Another step closer.

“I trust you, my lady.”

A look of annoyance—she knew she was being baited now. “Were I but a lady, I still would not be yours.”

She meant it doubly, he knew. Feeling him out.

“As per your wishes. I would not force my fealty upon you.”

Her eyes glazed over as she studied him. He moved forward again, close enough to feel her fever on his muzzle.

“You have no fealty to give,” she said at last.

Ah yes, she doubted the existence of such a thing. All men were unfeeling and treacherous. Did she underestimate her own ability to inspire devotion? Or did she think her gods had failed to give men guiding hearts?

“How can I prove my loyalty to our home?”

This time it was she who stepped closer. Jon sucked in a breath, tasting her heat on the tip of his tongue.

“Another unearned claim.”

“Am I not of the North?”

“You are not come home—that would suggest a return to some place you’ve been before.”

“That is not my doing,” Jon said. “I believe our true home is the one we choose.”

“Rather than the one that has chosen you.”

“Do you admit the old gods brought me here?” Her mouth dropped open with some reply, but he continued. “Do you not trust your own gods?”

Sansa snapped her teeth together again. “How dare you?”

“I have already knelt for you once, my queen,” he whispered.

A flicker of conflict entered her eyes. Jon had often felt at the weather’s mercy, but now he could melt ice with his words. Sansa’s opinions seemed so set that a change in her seasons was more worth the earning.

The blue froze over once more.

“You are too inconsistent for my service,” she said.

A breeze blew a strand of fire across her face. He didn’t dare brush it away, tuck it back into her plait as he wished. She wouldn’t like it.

“What would you have me do?”

Did she realize his capitulation? How he begged her to trust him with her demands? He’d do anything she might ask of him. Nothing could be worse than what he had already done for Viserys.

“Keep your distance. Stay outside during the day so your scent doesn’t permeate the castle.”

The simple request weighed upon his shoulders with significance. It was a chance, his first to prove himself capable of more than subjugation. Jon dipped his head low.

“As you command.”

***

Sansa watched the spot where he’d disappeared for a long time. She sniffed the air gently, then deeper. Faded, stale. The remnant of scent was nearly too much to bear, but she knew he’d gone. She approached the heart tree and sunk down.

There wasn’t much to say. The gods might be offended if she asked them to break her heat. It was a gift, after all, which allowed the Northern lineage to flourish.

But why invite this dragon into the wolf’s den? Why give a stranger such power over her? The last time she was at a man’s mercy, he used her abominably. Where were the old gods when Lord Baelish killed her aunt and cousin? When he tried to sell her to the highest bidder? Had Brienne not come with support from the Riverlands, Sansa might be dead or worse.

Never again.

Jon could speak of friendship and fealty with all the sincerity in the world. She still didn’t know how he defined those words. Fealty was conditional. And some believed that love allowed for selfishness.

Jon would have to show her what friendship meant to him.

After her knees had numbed she decided to leave. The gods would do as much or as little as they wished regardless of her prayer. She snuck back into her chambers to prepare for the day, choosing a thick leather chest piece to keep her scent in.

She entered the great hall with caution, but Jon wasn’t there. The visiting bannermen and the omegas they’d accompanied were a sullen lot, neglected as they were. Sansa rectified that with the promise of a farewell feast.

Though no one behaved differently in her presence, she saw the recognition in their eyes. She kept her chin high, daring anyone to sniff the air.

After an hour of holding an audience with the smallfolk, she met with a Myrish emissary about the expected timber shipment. The man complained of the wine, but lauded the company. His harmless admiration was almost a comfort after days of dread.

In the afternoon Sansa retired to her office to wrestle with numbers. When the book of coin was settled, she turned to her letters. None of the correspondence held much of consequence. With such trouble still occurring in the south, the quiet caused her unease.

A knock at the door. She finally looked up to see that night had fallen.

“Come in.”

The serving girl carried a tray of food to the desk. She set it down, then fell into a curtsy.

“I meant to sup with the lords,” Sansa mused.

“Forgive me, my queen,” the girl squeaked. “The—the prince came to the kitchens. Gave orders to send you food.”

The hearty stew made Sansa’s stomach growl. She stood from her desk with sore muscles, gestured for the girl to rise from the floor.

“Do you know where the prince is now?”

Her little eyes were round. “He’s been seen in the training yard today, your grace.”

Sansa nodded, clasped her hands together. “You should go have your supper now.”

“Thank you. Your grace.” The girl curtsied again before she fled the office.

Was this concern, or was Jon trying to keep her from the great hall for some reason? The lone window in her office overlooked the training yard. She crossed to it now and pushed it open.

He clearly remained outside, though her eyes needed a moment to adjust to the darkness. The low sound of steel on straw made its way to her ears. As if weighed down by stone, Sansa sunk through the haze of his scent until she swam in it.

She could make him out now, a faraway shadow. He moved swiftly with a sword in hand, the torchlight outlining his edges. He appeared to dance in the fire. Only moments later Jon looked up. He walked into a stall and returned emptyhanded, approaching her window at an even pace.

Perhaps it was the sense of accomplishment she’d earned that day that urged her to speak with him. She’d been able to focus on her duties because, true to his word, Jon had stayed outside. She supposed that earned him a few kind words.

He stood at the foot of the tower, some twenty feet down, at least. Even so, the potency of his scent grew with his nearness. It numbed the pain she’d grown accustomed to in his absence. The yard was empty and the night still. Jon cupped his hands around his mouth, head drawn back.

“Have you eaten?”

Sansa folded her forearms along the windowsill and rested her chin there. “You shouldn’t shout at ladies.”

His teeth flashed in the darkness. “Were you but a lady, you’d still need food.”

“You’re impertinent!”

This time he laughed. The sound of it swirled around her skull like smoke blown in a chalice. She took his scent in again and felt drunk on it, bit her lip against a dreamy smile.

“I admire my queen’s diligence,” he said.

Of course. From the training yard he could see the light in her window. He saw she’d never gone to supper.

“How shall I repay your admiration?”

Before he could answer, Sansa retrieved a handkerchief she’d embroidered from the desk. She ran it along her jaw, then leaned out the window once more.

“You needn’t trouble yourself,” Jon said at her return.

Sansa ignored him, ignored the judgmental voice in her head for once. She dropped her arm down and dangled the handkerchief from her fingers. It floated to him like a specter in the night. Jon reached up and closed his fist around it. Sansa shut her window before she could further abandon propriety. The ache returned almost immediately.

Another servant came later to retrieve the empty dishes. With a full belly, the day’s wear settled into her bones. Sansa retired to her chambers and waited for her handmaiden to arrive. Greyce released the laces of her corset, helped her change into a night shift. Then she unwove the plait she’d created just that morning and brushed Sansa’s hair out.

Alone again, she sat at the hearth with a bit of sewing. The easy, often comforting task provided only frustration. That pain of missing Jon worsened, made her hands shake so that she pricked her fingers. Despite her best attempts, she ruined the fabric with drops of blood. Her smallclothes were uncomfortably stuck to her center. She shifted in her seat, threw her sewing aside.

Brienne would come soon. Sansa had to hold herself together until her friend could secure her binds. Giving in to the ache would only exacerbate the situation.

One, two, three, four knocks at the door.

Sansa jumped to her feet and had to catch herself against the mantle. She pressed the back of one hand to her brow, waited for the room to still, breathed slowly.

Jon. She took him in her lungs and felt her legs wobble again. Did he mistake her token for an invitation? What a fool she’d been to encourage him.

“Go away!”

“It’s a matter of urgency,” he called through the door.

 _It had better be._ She fluttered about her solar in search of a robe with which to cover herself. When she stood at the window, a safe distance from the door with a fresh breeze on her face, she gave him permission to enter.

“Leave the door open.”

Jon shook his head tightly. “We must speak privately.”

Sansa licked her lips before pursing them together. “Won’t you let me decide that?”

He lifted one hand and she saw a scroll clutched in his grasp. After a deep breath from the window she held her hand out. He crossed the solar to pass it to her, then backed away again.

The seal remained unbroken. Sansa faltered at the sight. Surely he hadn’t resealed the letter for her benefit. But why would he bring this to her without first reading it himself? It could say _anything_ , might incriminate him, even.

She opened and unrolled it with care. The Targaryen sigil ornamented one corner. Sansa returned Jon’s gaze, jerked her chin at the door. When he closed it she read.

“My Jaehaerys, do not dawdle as you are wont to. We both know the risk in trying the king’s patience. He fears the worst—losing you to your wild blood. I confess I fear the same.

“House Lefford has taken the Rock, and must be dealt with upon your return. See to your needs, secure the North, and come to me. I will need you by my side more than ever when I am queen.

“Yours, Daenerys.”

Sansa dropped the scroll on the table that stood between them. She lowered herself into a chair and leaned back, resting a forefinger on her mouth. Footfalls brought Jon nearer, though he kept the table between them. He waited for her to speak, she realized.

“They’re to be married.”

“Yes,” he breathed.

“And she’s afraid of him?”

“Yes.”

She nodded slowly. Her next question lay locked behind her teeth. She couldn’t understand her hesitation. The nature of Daenerys’ love for her nephew was none of Sansa’s own concern. She chose another question, instead. One infinitely more relevant.

“What will you reply?”

“What would you have me reply?”

Her head snapped in his direction. Jon’s face seemed perturbed, and yet…earnest. The familiar etch of his brooding brow remained, but his mouth hung in a soft curve.

He’d already betrayed his aunt’s confidence. Did he really mean to send her a contrived response, as well?

Though she couldn’t bring herself to, Sansa wanted to trust him. And didn’t that count for something? Except…she couldn’t be certain of her desires in this state. What if it wasn’t instinct she followed, but base lust? Perhaps her thinking would clear if she gave in to him.

 _Oh,_ but that was a dangerous thought. That soft mouth on her body, that dark beard against her skin, those sure hands wrapped around her—

“Are you well?”

Sansa flushed. She must look a sight, panting up at him and nearly rocking in her seat.

“Your presence does confound me,” she admitted.

Those sure hands rested on the table now as Jon bent toward her. He came near enough for her make out his lashes. They obscured his eyes as he gazed up from beneath them.

“I hope to afford you more clarity in the future.”

Prickles of pleasure ran up Sansa’s neck, over her scalp.

Another round of knocks sounded. She couldn’t move to receive the visitor, pinned down as she was. Jon wavered a long moment before he broke away. He moved for the door to admit Brienne into the solar.

The knight’s look was all reproach. Sansa found, with more than some astonishment, that she felt no shame at Jon’s presence. Rather, she was loath to escape it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went back and forth on that P&P (2005) quote at the end, but it was the sentiment I wanted to convey.  
> This setup was needed for the devilish fun coming in Chapter 4...


	4. Thine Own Will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa gives Jon a few opportunities to prove his loyalties.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was getting out of hand, so I split it early. There's still some of the 'devilish fun' I promised, but the juicy bits are incoming.  
> Your comments give me life, so thank you all so much for the support. Just call me Tinkerbell.  
> The politics I bring up are fairly relevant, so I hope you all enjoy!

At the knight’s look of accusation, Jon drew himself up to his full height. Brienne stepped around him into the solar, and he closed the door again.

The enchantment only a few hours prior felt far away now. Sansa had dropped her favor from the window like a lady in a song. It was an eternal moment, trapped in the space between heartbeats where contraries collide. If they could but live in that space…He’d caught the handkerchief with a blue rose embroidery and held it to his nose.

When he finally returned to his chambers, the letter was delivered. It changed everything and nothing. Jon found himself at Sansa’s door before he could think to crack the seal. Would she understand then? His willingness to share everything with her?

Their moment, the one that fed the hopeful creature that had taken up residence inside him, was ended by the knock.

“It’s getting late, my queen,” Brienne said.

“So it is,” Sansa agreed.

Brienne cleared her throat. “Should you like to retire soon?”

Sansa’s tongue poked out to wet her lips, and her eyes brushed over him fleetingly. When she stood her emotions were shielded once more.

“Ser Brienne, might I speak with you in my chambers?”

She didn’t wait for an answer, just floated to the door with the knight close behind. Brienne shut Jon out from the conversation with a click of the door.

He sat at the table and read the letter as he waited. He almost felt guilty, for he hadn’t thought of his aunt once since leaving the south. He considered a response Sansa might favor—something direct, yet uninformative.

The voices in the next room rose audibly. Jon stood again, wondering if he should not simply see himself out. Sansa must be exhausted after her trying day. Surely their response could wait until morning.

Just as he turned to leave, Brienne appeared again. She shut the chamber door and proceeded to lock it. When she replaced the key in her pocket, she turned on Jon.

“The queen has demanded you guard her this evening.”

All night with naught but a door between them. As if she heard his thoughts, Brienne stepped close so she was looking down on him.

“If that door is open come morning, I will execute you myself.”

He knew she meant it. “I won’t harm her.”

Brienne moved away stiffly. “I suppose we’ll find out.”

She was gone before he could respond. Jon barred the door behind her and walked about the solar. He picked up a scrap of discarded sewing and put it in a basket with the rest. A wolf figurine stood on the mantle between two silver candlesticks.

Why had Sansa permitted him to stay? Was it another trial of trust? Perhaps she merely meant to relieve Brienne for the night. He had just taken a seat when Sansa called his name.

Jon crept toward the sound and pressed his ear to the door without reply, afraid to disturb her lest she slept. When he was certain he’d imagined the noise, it came again.

“Sansa?”

“ _Jon_.”

The door. He had to remind himself not to take it down. Not out of fear of Brienne, but because he feared betraying Sansa’s trust. He was meant to guard her. Oh, but she sounded so desperate for him.

“I’m here,” he called. “’ll protect you, I promise.”

“I need—I need—”

“What do you need?”

“You!”

 _I need you, too_. He needed to touch her, comfort her. When Jon next spoke his voice had dropped into a croon, weighed down by his need.

“You have me, Sansa. I won’t leave you. Do you believe me?”

“Yes.” It was almost too quiet to hear.

“Good. You’re so good.”

Jon breathed her in then, feeling himself calm with her scent. He heard her sigh. The soft, sweet sound of it felt like a caress. He took a chair from the table and dropped it by her door so he could sit with her.

“You should sleep.”

“I can’t.”

He leaned his forehead against the wood, pulling on her scent again. “No?”

“I’ll dream,” Sansa said.

“Nightmares?”

“ _No_.”

He traced his finger along the hinge of the door. “What do you dream?”

It was a whisper, but she heard him all the same. Speaking through the door allowed for better communication, their words gaining intimacy while their faces remained hidden.

“You’re with me. When I wake you’re gone, and it _hurts_.” She moaned the last bit, her fear returning.

“Shh, I’m not going anywhere,” he soothed, and she was quiet again. “Can you smell me?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Take me in, Sansa.”

They breathed together, chests expanding. With each lungful they fell into an ancient harmony.

“Close your eyes.” He hardly recognized his own voice. “Can you sleep for me?”

“ _Mmm._ ”

Already she sounded at peace. He wished he knew a song to sing for her—Sansa would like songs, he thought.

“Rest now.”

She called his name a final time before falling silent. Jon stayed in place, drawing his mate’s fears away and willing sweet dreams upon her.

 _I dream of you, too._ He should have told her. When he began to fade he stood again, continuing his exploration of the solar. A braided rug was spread before the hearth, its colors faded. Dried flowers lay on the windowsill.

When he came to the writing desk, Jon fingered the instruments. He sharpened a quill, cut a strip of parchment, and began.

***

Sansa stretched into a long sleep. When she opened her eyes Brienne stood over her, busy removing the binds from her wrists.

“Where is he?”

Brienne circled to the other side of the bed. “The prince left when I arrived.”

With both hands free, Sansa sat up against her pillows.

“He’s gone?”

“He stayed all night,” Brienne reiterated. “And…you were correct. From what I can see, he made no attempt to force his way in.”

No, he wouldn’t have. However, she now had the proof to support her theory. Sansa remembered his voice just before she’d slipped away. The gentle command of it was bewitching. She would’ve done anything he said last night; and yet, he’d only told her to rest. His presence eased her pains, just as she hoped it would.

Greyce came, unusually quiet as she gave assistance that morning. When Sansa was dressed she emerged from her chamber to find two scraps of paper on her table—one Daenerys’ letter, and the other Jon’s response.

His hand was unpracticed, yet elegant in its own way. She read it carefully.

_Aunt Dany,_

_You need not worry. Though the North has many beauties, it is a hard land. I wait now for potential mates to make the journey to Winterfell. This is the cause for any delay._

_The king’s fear, though prudent, is misplaced. Remind him that I have yet to fail my family. I do not intend to do so now. Once I’ve earned submission, I shall be home._

_Jaehaerys_

The ink was dry. Sansa rolled the paper tight, sealed it with red wax, and handed it off to the maester.

There was no trace of Jon’s scent in the great hall. One errant moment was wasted in worrying after his health, but it passed. Surely he’d taken meals in his chambers. She hoped he’d found time to sleep, as well.

When she was finished eating, she went to the kitchens to check on the preparations for the farewell feast. The visiting lords needed revelry to curb the insult of Jon’s snub. And she would need to speak with him about that…as her guest, his discourtesies reflected poorly upon her.

Sansa walked the ramparts to observe the training, as she always did. Brienne kicked at a man’s leg to correct his stance. A breeze blew from across the yard, bringing a burst of fig and resin with it. She recognized Jon’s back in the far corner, hair tied and shoulders broad as he held a blunted sword in both hands.

Knees trembling, she grasped the handrail for support. His graceful movements of the night before were no less so in the morning light. Quite the contrary. He sparred with two men at once, spinning to block their blades as if there were a song in the air only he could hear.

As she watched, another man joined the others to take the dragon prince on. It was futile. Jon moved too quickly for any of them to find an opening in his defenses.

He broke away from them and strode through the yard, sword lowered to his side. The three stumbled at his sudden departure, but resumed their sparring with each other. They were more evenly matched that way. Jon’s scent curled around her as he neared and his eyes found hers.

Brienne stilled in her demonstration, watching them. Truly, Jon wasn’t imposing. Not when she’d come to him. She descended the stair, drew near enough to speak, but left a fair distance between them.

“How are you?”

Sansa shared a secretive look with him. “I’m well, thank you. And you?”

A gentle smile touched his lips. “Very well.”

She thought again of the letter he’d written in the night. He could’ve sent it himself, but he left it for her approval instead. She breathed through her mouth to gather herself.

“I’ve come to invite you to a meeting this afternoon.”

He blinked. “A meeting?”

“My advisors will gather in the council room. I trust you’ll be among them.”

She watched his mouth fall open a little in the most endearing look of befuddlement.

“Thank you, Sansa.”

She fought the corners of her mouth, swallowed her immediate response and dipped her head instead. He backed away with a little nod before resuming his demonstrations. Sansa met Brienne’s look, twitched her brow in reply.

Next, she met with the maester in the library. They discussed that month’s marriage proposals over honeyed oatcakes. He understood his queen’s distaste for the subject, but urged her to consider her options.

They walked to the council room together. Jon stood at the far end of the table, flanked by Brienne and Wyllem Manderly. Scarcely older than Sansa herself, Manderly represented his grandfather’s interests over the course of his stay in Winterfell. Lord Glover and the young Lady Karstark also had a place around her council table.

When Sansa took her seat, the rest followed.

“I should ask why a Targaryen is present,” Glover began. “I assume we’re here to discuss their invasion of the south.”

“I represent myself alone,” Jon said. “The North was my mother’s home. I wish to preserve it just as everyone else in this room.”

“As you preserved King’s Landing?” Glover’s nostrils flared. “Aye, the Red Keep still stands. But the Lannisters are extinct now, are they not?”

Jon’s eyes were round, a look of danger Sansa had yet to see. “You defend the Lannisters? The house that held your queen captive?”

“The North is its people, _prince._ ” Glover spat the last. “To preserve it, you must defend its houses.”

Tension started in Jon’s shoulders and rippled up Sansa’s legs. She pinched the skin at her wrist beneath the table. It was no use. Jon and Manderly both turned to her with hunger.

They could smell her slick.

She hardened her face, willing her shame away. Jon flushed at calling attention to her condition. He looked down. Then his gaze took a sharp turn in Wyllem Manderly’s direction. The young lord stared openly, interest evident in his pale blue eyes.

Something dark flashed in Jon’s expression. It did nothing to ease the throbbing at Sansa’s core. She sucked air between her teeth, but Manderly spoke first.

“Have you received my proposal, your grace?”

His brash words did him no favors. Jon watched him with open hostility now. Sansa had to redirect the conversation before it led to violence.

“It has been received, Lord Manderly, though it is irrelevant to this discussion. I suggest we focus on the matter of Northern defense.”

“Forgive me,” Manderly pushed, “but I believe that it is relevant.”

Sansa tilted her head in inquiry.

“The crown needs my house’s support. Defense must be funded, your grace.”

“I should think house Manderly’s concern would be our weakness at sea. The lack of a war fleet makes the New Castle vulnerable.”

“I agree,” Jon said. “The Targaryen fleet is five hundred strong. It could take White Harbor in a sennight.”

“The castle is well defended,” Manderly argued. “My uncle commands the garrison. A siege would take long enough for reinforcements to arrive, at which point—”

“Siege?” Jon’s brow rose. “Viserys has no patience for that. He would opt for a quick assault, sparing no lives on either side.”

“Is that the Targaryen plan of attack, then?” Glover asked. “Take White Harbor, and move out from there?”

Jon bit his lip in thought, then shook his head. “I could not say. My uncle would be a fool to march the Dothraki North, however—”

“He isn’t known for his wisdom,” Brienne supplied.

Jon nodded.

A horde of Dothraki. Who in the North could imagine such a thing?

“Would that they catch Winter Fever,” Lady Karstark mumbled at Sansa’s side.

They could reasonably assume the safety of Greywater Watch. And the Moat had yet to fall to a southron army. No, the Manderlys and the Flints were most at risk.

“We must send word to the New Castle and Widow’s Watch,” Sansa said.

The maester and Lord Glover agreed.

“You might send a raven to the Fingers, as well,” Jon added. “Keep them on the lookout for Targaryen galleys.”

It was sound advice. Sansa nodded to the maester, who scratched a note into his parchment.

The meeting broke soon after. Everyone rose and made their departure. They likely wished to prepare for the evening’s feast. Jon, however, held his place. With the length of the table between them, she felt safe enough to meet his gaze. There was a question there, though she couldn’t be sure what it was. His dark eyes were expressive and yet so enigmatic.

“Your grace.”

Sansa startled at the voice. Manderly stood at her side.

“Might I walk you to your chambers?” he asked.

Another glance at Jon. His lips were curled now, a glare aimed at the other man. She took a deep breath.

“You must forgive me, but I have work to do before the festivities begin.”

“Of course.”

He stepped back to let her pass. Sansa fled to her office and gathered herself at the window. When the fresh air blew the haze from her mind, she sat at her desk to write Lord Reed.

If Viserys did attempt to march up the causeway, Moat Cailin would need to be ready.

***

Jon lowered himself into the fresh bath prepared in his chambers. The heat did nothing for the tension in his muscles. He laid back, letting the oils seep into his skin. When the water cooled he submerged himself fully, hoping to chill the rage in his blood.

Manderly’s face appeared against the backdrop of Jon’s eyelids. The presumptuous young lord thought to take what didn’t belong to him. How could he hope for an acceptance to his proposal? How could the Manderlys think to gain the queen’s favor by leveraging their wealth against her?

Jon came up for air. Water sloshed onto the floor.

The gods had chosen him to mate her. If Sansa wouldn’t have him, then who might she deem worthy? Certainly she had no need for a king, but why marry at all if she could help it? Manderly just wanted her political power.

That wasn’t strictly true. The man also lusted after her. He’d made as much obvious in the council room. Her sweet scent seemed to call to him, as well…

That scent which belonged to Jon. Deriving from the heat _he_ had kindled within her.

Manderly couldn’t have her. Not even with Sansa’s approval. Jon’s body would feed the dogs before he allowed their union to occur.

He rose from the bath, combing his curls back with his fingers. He withdrew Sansa’s handkerchief from beneath his pillow. When he took a chair the wood darkened with the rivulets running from his body. He sat before the water and took himself in hand.

When he pressed her scent to her face, Jon’s eyes rolled back with pleasure. He gathered the fluid leaking from the tip of his cock and swiped it into the swell of his knot.

It had occurred to him to peak last night, while she slept only feet away, but her rest was more important than his momentary satisfaction. She’d moaned once in her sleep, and he’d fought against the allure of the sound.

Jon thought of it now. What did she dream while he protected her? Was it his cock that inspired her moans? His mouth? He imagined the sounds she would make as she peaked around his tongue.

White ropes of seed shot into the bathwater.

Dry, he dressed for the feast in a black doublet with silver clasps. One of the servants who cleared the bath produced a bone hair comb. Jon passed it through his curls and made for the great hall.

Sansa’s handmaiden intercepted him at the door. She looked nervous.

“The queen would like to speak with you, my prince.”

The mousy thing scampered away then. He followed her toward the family rooms, pace so quick that he nearly knocked her over when she stopped. The handmaiden gestured to the right, indicating an alcove hidden behind a tapestry.

Sansa stood with her back to him. Small flowers decorated the plait twisted around her crown, the rest of her hair falling in waves. She turned, and the light caught the shimmer of blue fishes embroidered into the high neck of her gown.

“You wished to speak with me?”

Honey overwhelmed the bite of metal, just as it had in the council room. Perhaps…did his voice elicit that response?

“I wanted to thank you for your input earlier,” she said.

Her tone suggested there was more to come. Jon shook his head at the trifle.

“Of course. You will always have my honest counsel.”

“I suspect I shall always have need of it.”

A funny little feeling burrowed through him, one he could only describe as joy. Was this a true compliment?

“I trust you to conduct yourself with decorum at the feast.”

He smiled at his own foolishness. “Do you?”

Sansa looked mildly disappointed. “Have I the option not to?”

“You needn’t remind me to act in your interest. It’s all I can do.”

She winced. Had he frightened her with his honesty?

“You need only keep your distance,” she murmured. “Your seat will be far from mine. I mean no slight, only to provide us both with some comfort.”

Jon nodded. “I hope you enjoy your evening.”

He left before she could dismiss him. It was too difficult to stand so near and not touch her. _Take her_ , the beast growled. _Make her yours_. He couldn’t argue, only restrain himself.

A serving maid led him to the end of the head table and filled his tankard with dark ale. Lords and knights and ladies and maidens chattered about the hall. Jon had managed a deep gulp of ale when Sansa arrived. They all stood and stared.

The flush on her skin had faded—forced away by her will of steel. She looked radiant as ever. One woman sighed as the queen passed her. Sansa reached the table, sunk into her chair, and the meal was served.

Four bodies sat between them, but still Jon could smell her. He ate the food placed before him, responded to Lady Karstark’s attempts at conversation. She soon gave up on him, though, and turned to the lordling at her other side.

The final course was a spongey cake with a slice of lemon baked into the top. Four bodies away, Sansa gave a quiet moan. Jon looked up in time to see her suck a finger into her mouth.

He gripped the edge of the table to keep from standing. If he stood, he would go to her. He would drag her from the great hall or, worse, bend her over the table and claim her for them all to see. Her scent sharpened again. Sansa stood with an abruptness that drew every eye. She raised her goblet.

“To a safe journey for each of you,” she said. They all drank to their queen’s toast. “No farewell is complete without music.”

The players appeared to the merriment of many. The tables cleared to allow for dancing.

After two songs were complete, Lord Glover’s son bowed to Sansa, then held his hand out for her. Sansa ignored the hand, but stood to join him, nevertheless. Jon’s teeth ached from grinding together. He followed her every move with his gaze. She danced gracefully, but with far more care than others. Her palm met young Glover’s, and the boy smiled.

Perhaps her earlier reminder of restraint hadn’t been needless, after all. Jon wondered if Glover’s smile would remain should his fingers snap in another man’s grip. Sansa never met Jon’s look—she seemed not to feel its weight upon her. He watched their footwork, instead.

The steps were unfamiliar, though not complex. She took the next dance with her castellan, the steps changing only slightly for the new song. Her skirts twirled around her figure when she spun, the image playing in repetition through Jon’s mind.

When the music signaled a change, he rose and approached an omega. He was unaware of her name, but knew she would not reject him.

“Would you join me for the next?”

The words scarcely left his mouth before she jumped up to wrap her arm around his. Poor girl. He might feel some concern for her hopes, but he was consumed with fighting the beast.

As it was, the girl’s scent did not drive him away. They easily fell into step with the other dancers. The omega offered him numerous smiles as they moved together. Jon forced himself to return one for politeness’ sake. She turned bright red at the attention.

Jon’s smile faltered when they passed through a trail of blood and honey. His pulse thumped harder, and the omega missed a step to lean into him.

“Please,” she whined.

He gripped the tops of her arms to push her away, but she only seemed encouraged by the action. Past the dancers that separated them, he saw Sansa had changed partners again.

Manderly circled her in a green tunic with gold brocade. He closed in with each pass he made around her. It was like he hunted her, no doubt chasing that sweetness at her throat.

Jon recalled the day he’d chased her down, only for her to fall into him.

Sansa could ultimately reject him, but pursuit of her was _his_ gods’ given right. Blood and honey was _his_ enchantment to succumb to. Manderly, the covetous fool, stole every breath he took of her scent.

As the music faded, Manderly pulled on Sansa’s hand. He tucked it under his arm and walked the queen away from the crowd, toward the doors that led to the courtyard.

Jon moved after them. The omega stumbled behind him with clumsy eagerness, frustrating the beast within. He barked at her.

“Stay!”

She shrank back. Jon sighed. He held out a hand in apology.

Sansa’s scent faded—she’d left the great hall.

He forgot the frightened girl and followed his queen, pulling on her scent to guide him along. There was little reason behind the action, just a feeling of dread.

If Manderly harmed her, he would meet the dawn as a pillar of smoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I know, it's a cliffhanger. I had to stop here, or else delay updating. I hope it was still satisfying?  
> Also, I totally made up Wyllem Manderly.


	5. Want Over Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa deal with Manderly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't intend to post today, but you've all waited long enough! Thank you for the love you've given this fic--it's different than I originally planned, but I'm excited about where I'll be taking it.  
> This will likely be the longest fic I've ever written, so I hope everyone's buckled in. This one's for my incredible Jonsa fam.  
> (Also, I've been working on my other WIP as well. I promise I'll update GMYAP eventually!)

The bodies packed inside the great hall smothered Sansa while Jon’s scent assaulted her from all sides. Near the end of the feast a tremor overtook her, so fierce that she’d leapt from her seat. She was only able to maintain some dignity with a toast.

 _It’s all I can do,_ Jon had said before.

Her aversion to submission kept this alpha at her mercy, and it did injury to them both. Did he even wish to remain in Winterfell? Or was he simply kept hostage by his own blood?

Sansa’s head ached with such thoughts. When the young Glover asked for a dance, she took the opportunity to create more distance between herself and her cousin. Recalling steps she’d learned as a girl with a belly full of wine proved an interesting challenge, but she kept up with the music. The movement worked some of the frustration from her limbs, at any rate. They turned to jelly again when Jon stood.

Over her castellan’s shoulder, she watched Jon approach Eddara Tallhart. It was a great surprise, the heat Sansa felt at that. Not the familiar heat of lust, but of rage. It slithered down her spine like a drop of poison.

Lady Tallhart clung to Jon, likely hoping for a second chance at the alpha. Sansa stumbled into a new partner when the music changed.

“I’m impressed, your grace.” She returned Manderly’s smile with a grimace. He continued to speak without prompting. “I could smell your heat from across the hall, yet you dance as if you are unfazed.”

She lifted her chin. “I dance to engage with my people, Lord Manderly. Would you suggest I hide myself away like some negligent ruler?”

He chuckled. “No queen was ever more attentive.”

Did he think his attempt at flattery shielded his contempt?

“I attend to my duties, as any entitled person must do,” she said, giving him a sharp look.

Now he frowned. “Are you calling me negligent, then?”

They switched places, and she took the opportunity to peek over at her fellow dancers. Lady Tallhart’s bosom was pressed into Jon’s doublet. Sansa curled her nails into her palms and turned back to face her partner.

“Tell me, do you ride for White Harbor tomorrow?”

“That depends,” Manderly said, amused. “Are your kisses warmer than spring?”

He referenced a popular ribald song, one which a proper lady would feign ignorance of, but his implication made little sense.

“I will not respond to such a question.”

Manderly drew close. “Then permit me to speak openly with you.”

They stood still while she considered him. The isolation of House Manderly was something she, quite literally, could not afford. And she needed Wyllem to take his men back to the city so they might reinforce the New Keep.

Further, she could no longer remain in the great hall. Resin and fig pulled at her will. Coupled with the attention Jon gave another omega, Sansa profoundly desired to fall on her knees before him. For who better than she could submit to her alpha?

But what if Jon missed the South? What if their attachment twisted him to act against his interest? Worse, what if he hated Sansa once her heat released them both?

She took Manderly’s proffered arm.

They walked into the courtyard with determined steps. The guards posted turned away so as not to intrude on the conversation. Sansa gulped the crisp air through her mouth.

“I know why you must reject my proposal,” Wyllem began.

His presumption made the thought of facing him distasteful. She watched the night sky instead, searching for patterns in the stars.

“Do you?”

“You are betrothed to another.”

If she rejected the claim, he mightn’t believe her. The conversation would end there, and Manderly would feel disrespected.

“And who is my betrothed?”

“A Dornish lord,” he said. Sansa turned to see him smirk. “Your lemoncakes gave the secret away. You should’ve known better than to serve them.”

Presumption _and_ denigration. Rather than speak, she walked in the direction of the glass gardens. The fool would follow, of course. When she breathed, Sansa picked up on Jon’s scent once more. Had he followed them away from the festivities?

She held her hands together to keep them from shaking. _When had Jon’s notice turned from an annoyance to a thrill?_

The walk to the glass gardens was tedious. Wyllem made several attempts at conversation, all of which Sansa ignored. They passed more guards as she cut across the bridge to the armory, then walked the perimeter of the godswood.

The moonlight washed out the yellow and green tints of the glass panes. When Sansa opened the door, the warmth of the springs hit her nose, then her cheeks. She stepped inside. Past the peas and medicinal herbs, into the hottest part of the garden, she approached the lemon tree. She breathed deep of its fragrance.

Something foreign sullied it. Something like bitter sage and the brine of the sea. Manderly came up behind her, and the scent grew in pungency. She wrinkled her nose.

“When did you present?”

“The same day you got your heat,” he said.

Something in his tone sent prickles over her scalp. She became acutely aware of her own skin, the darkness of the gardens. He thought her heat was for him, unaware she’d suppressed it for days. Jon’s scent had so overwhelmed her that she only picked up on Wyllem’s now…in this enclosure…alone. She felt the air move and spun around.

“You are not to touch me.”

“You can have your alliance,” Manderly said. “I just want a taste of The Dornishman’s Wife.”

She stepped away from him. “I’ve no alliance with Dorne. The lemons were grown here, do you see?”

He plucked a leaf from the tree and crumpled it in his fingers. Apprehension settled into her limbs, making them heavy.

“Then you will accept my proposal?”

Sansa swallowed. “I will do what is best for the North.”

He shook his head once before he lurched forward. She refused to look away now, wouldn’t cow to him as he wanted. She met the anger in his eyes with cold indifference.

“You’ve grown too willful,” Manderly said. “You need an alpha to put you in your place.”

She couldn’t help but smile then. Jon’s scent had returned. As it neared, calm replaced her dread. Jon would find her. She trusted him to make Manderly regret ever passing through the gates of Winterfell.

Manderly mistook her smile. He wrapped a hand around her throat, bent her head back so he could loom over her.

“You want to submit, don’t you?” His free hand clawed at the fabric of her shoulder. “One bite and you’ll thaw.”

“Not for you!”

Wyllem turned in time to catch Jon’s fist. Blood sprayed from his nose, and the hand at Sansa’s throat disappeared. Jon drove his shoulder into the other man, barreling him to the ground.

Relief nearly brought her down, as well. She leaned against the glass and took Jon’s scent in, working to slow her heart. After three deep breaths, her mind could register the noise.

Raven curls fell in Jon’s face as he leaned over Manderly. He raised one arm, then the next, bringing them down on the other man’s face again and again with that terrible sound of pummeled flesh.

Sansa watched, transfixed. Jon grunted with each hit he landed, until he hadn’t the breath to spare. He grew frenzied, swinging his arms as if he didn’t even see the bloodied face beneath him.

_He’s going to kill him._

“Jon.”

His fist slowed as he looked up at her, then fell limply to his side. His body heaved with his breath, just a moment of pause before he stood at her side. She felt his eyes on her.

“Will you get the guards?”

Jon left without a word. Sansa moved closer to the man on his back.

“Lord Manderly.” Only a moan of response came. “In the morning you are to ride for your grandfather’s keep. You may pray to whichever gods you believe will hear you, but I doubt they will be so lenient.”

As Wyllem’s head rolled to the side, he spat blood into the dirt. He took a few ragged breaths before Jon returned with two guards. Sansa stood back to give them access to the body.

“Take him to the maester’s turret.”

The guards took one end each and shuffled away, back towards the keep.

Silence fell as she and Jon just stared at each other. The gardens felt different. His musk torrented around her, no doubt strengthened by bloodlust, but that wasn’t all. She felt seen. In the dark, where she could hardly make out the parting of Jon’s lips, they knew each other.

“Are you—?”

“Your hands.” Her voice had shrunk down again. “They’re hurt.”

Jon lifted his hands, looked at them as if wondering at the pain. The silver light shone off the blood on his knuckles. Sansa laid her palms beneath his and led him to the cistern. The pipes that carried springwater throughout the castle ran about the gardens, as well.

She lowered their hands beneath the water and, so gently, drifted her fingers over the caked-on blood. She glanced up to see if it pained him, but he only watched her motions with that steady gaze. His knuckles were red, raw. Sansa reached beneath her dress, watched Jon’s eyes go wide. She ripped the fabric of her shift until she had two long strips. Jon held his hands open and let her wrap them, then tie off the makeshift binds with a knot.

“How does that feel?”

He flexed his fingers and nodded.

“Are you—” Jon cleared his throat. “Are you hurt?”

Shook her head. “Only my pride.” At his confused look, she continued. “I feel a fool for not realizing what he was sooner.”

“The fault is not with you,” Jon contested.

“But it is.” She blinked slowly. “I was too preoccupied with another alpha to notice.”

***

_Does she mean me?_

_Fool. Is there another alpha standing with her now?_

_But does she mean to give me hope?_

Too many thoughts flooded his mind—they each drowned the others out. Jon’s knuckles throbbed, but the pain came from far away. What mattered most was her safety. He opened his mouth to suggest they return to her chambers when she spun away, moving toward a growth of flowers. Sansa plucked a blue rose, then held her empty hand out to him.

“Will you escort me to the crypts?”

There could be no question of it. Jon took her offered hand and let her pull him along. Gentle clasp of fingers. Light steps as they snuck through the night. Soft glow illuminating her hair, broken only by the shadows that kept them hidden from the world. It all flashed by until she knelt to open the doors of the crypts.

The dank air made his eyes water. It sobered him instantly.

His ancestors lay down there. The relations that bound the two of them rested beyond this threshold. Sansa took his hand again and led him across that threshold, down a winding stair. He took special care not to tread on the hem of her gown.

One torch burned where they emerged from the stair. Sansa turned back to Jon and handed him the rose before she ventured into the darkness. She returned with a candle which she lit on the flame.

He followed with bated breath. She moved from side to side, lighting clusters of candles until rows of sepulchers were visible. They stopped at one, a man carved with his greatsword and a direwolf at his feet.

“My father,” Sansa said.

Her voice resonated off the stone. Jon glanced over to catch the hint of a smile on her face, her eyes alight. He studied the statue now, eager to see the person whom she remembered with such fondness.

Eddard Stark had a long face—stern in some respects. Any man who went to war over his family, though, had to possess some kind of softheartedness. Or was it honor that demanded his defense of the Stark name?

No. Sansa clearly loved him. The claim of such a daughter’s love was enough to paint Eddard as a great man. For all Sansa had endured upon his death, it seemed she did not blame her father for such hardships. Not the way Jon had always blamed his own father.

“Do you miss him?”

It was a silly question. But he wanted to hear her voice.

“Very much. You know,” she gulped. “The Lannisters murdered him with his own sword, right in front of me. I kept screaming, until…” she shook her head. “It was a long time ago.”

 _Until?_ He wanted to ask, but didn’t push. It would be Sansa’s decision to shed her armor.

“What became of his sword?”

“Ice?” Sansa sighed. “It was melted down. Ser Brienne has one half, and I believe the other was given to Joffrey.”

Joffrey Lannister was dead long before the Targaryens came to Westeros. But the Kingslayer fought with Valyrian steel before he was slain. Viserys took Jaime Lannister’s sword and his golden hand as trophies, though it was Jon that killed him.

Her hand touched his again. When he turned to face her, his breath caught. Just her exposed skin emerged from the gloom. The candlelight licked her face orange, caught the threads of flame in her hair. It pierced her eyes through, made the blue clearer as well as her thoughts. She’d never looked so soft. Then her lips pulled up, and Jon would rather perish than deny himself her touch.

“Come,” she said. “Just a bit further.”

They moved deeper within the crypt. The next statue was a woman, a veil around her head and one hand extended. A direwolf stood at her side to ward off evil. Something in her face spoke of longing.

“My mother.”

“Yes.”

Sansa lit more candles at Lyanna’s feet. Jon knew now why she’d given him the rose. He laid it in his mother’s hand, an offering for the life she’d given him. It didn’t seem enough. The blue petals were crumpled.

“She looks so young.”

Sansa stood again. “She was. My father didn’t like to talk about her, but I know a little. Would you like to hear?”

Jon swallowed. Nodded.

“She wore breeches sometimes. She liked to ride. But she liked songs, as well. They said the wolf’s blood was strong in her.”

“Like you?”

A short laugh, not unkind, broke the stillness in the air.

“Like you, Jon.”

It was too kind a thing to say. He pressed his lips together to stop them trembling. What a small thing to impact him so. All his life he’d been made aware of his strangeness. He was the “other” Targaryen—the one with dark features and an uncertain birth.

Dany always said his mother must have loved Rhaegar and run away with him, that theirs was a story of romance. But Jon always felt compelled to choose. He couldn’t remain loyal to them both. Not when Viserys called him a mutt. Not when Rhaegar’s seed killed Lyanna.

Sansa brushed a stray curl from his face. Her touch burned the shell of his ear.

“You have options,” she whispered.

“What do you mean?”

“This choice between your father’s family and your mother’s—it needn’t trap you so. You could travel further North if you wanted, or find an island and seclude yourself there.”

Panic leaked through him, black as ink. “Are you trying to send me away?”

“No! No, I just…” she stepped into him, submerging him in sweetness. “I don’t want you to stay because you think you have to. You should not settle for a—for the North.”

Sansa bit her lip, gaze faltering. Jon tapped one finger beneath her chin so she would look at him again.

“You think I would be settling for the North?”

Her chin wobbled. “I fear you will accept a life you will later come to regret. I have a duty to the North, but you—”

“Was your father a good man?”

She blinked, confused. “Yes.”

“And he did his duty to the North?”

“Yes.”

Jon nodded. “Then I shall do the same.”

Would she speak truly? Admit to her far more intimate fears? It was much to ask for, he knew. Sansa drew a long breath, though she never looked away from him after that first gentle command. It felt like obedience.

 _She is yours already_ , the beast hissed. He curled his hands into fists until his knuckles stung, waiting still for Sansa to speak.

“When my heat is broken—”

“I’ll still want you.”

A little shake of her head. “You want me because you’re in a rut.”

Why hadn’t he realized it sooner? While Sansa needed to be safe, she _wanted_ to be loved. Perhaps it wasn’t just her kingdom she feared losing to him. The thought heartened him as none other had.

“I’ll always want you,” he promised.

Sansa licked her bottom lip. Jon bracketed her face with his hands, stroked the tip of his nose up the length of hers before pressing his lips to her brow. She gasped.

 _It’s time, it’s time, take her._ The beast was losing patience, but this was bigger than that. Jon meant to have all of her or nothing.

“Let’s retire.”

With her palms flat against his doublet, Sansa nodded.


	6. A Taste, and Nothing More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon helps Sansa with her heat. They both face consequences for previous actions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't thank you all enough for your comments! I'm stoked enough that people are reading this fic, but I couldn't have imagined such a positive response. You all push me to continue updating. I've said it before, and I'll say it again--this fandom is the best!

Jon’s lips were chapped from the cold, but still so soft against her skin. The pain of Sansa’s heat was soothed and kindled to a blaze in one tender kiss to her forehead.

“Let’s retire,” Jon had said.

_Yes, yes please._

Her good, strong alpha wouldn’t shame her in front of their ancestors, would not defile the sacred place. She would’ve fallen to her knees on the cobblestone if he’d asked. Slick dripped past her smallclothes, down her thighs, and into her stockings.

Others had left the feast now, women stumbling against each other and couples pressed together under darkened archways. None looked twice at the queen hanging on her cousin’s arm.

Brienne and Greyce walked toward the great keep together. The latter swayed on her feet, clearly far into her cups. Brienne found her mark and changed course, making for Sansa.

She should go to her chamber now, let her trusted friends protect her for another night. At the thought of waiting for tomorrow, sharp pangs stabbed through Sansa’s midsection. As Brienne approached Jon's supportive arm tightened, then relaxed.

“The queen is weary,” he said. “See that she is prepared for her bed.”

Brienne took Sansa’s free arm and pulled her from Jon’s side. When her fingers slipped through his, Sansa whimpered. She turned back to find a dark look in his eyes, full of promise. At his nod, she let Brienne tug her along.

Numb. That first step away from him felt like nothing. Each step after ached all the more.

Greyce fumbled with the corset, then the flowers in her plait. When Sansa sat in her shift, hair brushed smooth, she made a noise of impatience. It wasn’t the sound of a queen, nor a proper lady, for that matter. But what she needed was wholly improper. Improper, yet so right.

“You may retire,” Brienne said when Greyce hiccupped.

The handmaiden kissed Sansa’s cheek before she left. Brienne turned her attention back to her queen.

“Give me your hands.”

Each movement brought increasing discomfort, as if Sansa could feel the friction of each stitch she wore against her flesh. They walked to the bed together, arms linked. Brienne reached for the ropes tied to the nearest post.

“No!”

Rather than offer her wrist to be bound, Sansa curled inward. Brienne frowned.

“Sansa, you asked me to do this.”

“I can’t!”

If Jon wished to bind her, he could do so. But she would be at _his_ mercy tonight. No one would keep her from her alpha. Not even her friend. Brienne opened her mouth, likely to express her concern, when resin and fig returned. Sansa could have wept with relief.

“Jon! Jon, please!”

***

Jon thanked the gods for Brienne’s arrival even as he cursed them. Had he made it to Sansa’s chambers, nothing would’ve stopped him from ripping her pretty dress and rutting her like an animal.

She had leaned into him with such trust. Her weight tethered him to that old dream—the one where he was a better man. It finally occurred to him that his numbness in King’s Landing stemmed not from his wolf’s blood, but from his shame.

As a boy Jon had dreamed of being a great hero. He would pick up a stick and swing it around, calling himself Prince Aemon the Dragonknight. His actions since boyhood disqualified him from the role, and he thought he’d come to terms with it. But he wanted to be Sansa’s Prince Aemon. He would need to brave her ire, and be gentle with her heart.

He leaned against a wall, tipped his head back and shut his eyes. _Wait. Breathe. Steady. Earn her submission. Earn her love._ She wouldn’t love him if he took her in the mud for all to see. But wouldn’t she look beautiful spread out before him? Her hair a beacon in the grime? The scent of her arousal mixing with the open air?

 _No_. His breeches were too tight. Tonight was not for him. He breathed slowly.

“Alpha!”

It wasn’t Sansa. The omega’s scent was familiar, but not right. He opened his eyes as the woman barreled into him.

Jon caught her shoulders and pushed her away, even as she tugged on the silver clasps of his doublet. It was the omega from before, the one he’d danced with. Had it only been an hour ago?

“Don’t.” It was a tone he’d never used with a lady before.

She shook her head, trying to wriggle closer. “But I need you. You smell so _good_!”

“Not for you,” he said, and shoved her back.

Jon fled to Sansa’s chambers before he could attract any more omegas. Her handmaiden passed him in the hall, only increasing his haste. He entered the empty solar without knocking, his mate’s distress pulling him forward.

“Jon! Jon, please!”

She called from the bed chamber. He held the table in the center of the room to keep himself still. Brienne emerged, clearly vexed.

“What have you done to her?”

He snarled, feral. “Lock the door!”

“No!” Sansa cried from within.

It undid him. Jon strained toward her voice just as Brienne locked the door. The handle spun, then fists banged feebly against the wood. Brienne turned back to him, blocking the door with her body.

“I feel I should stay,” she said.

“You will leave.”

Brienne raised her chin, much the same way Sansa did when she was feeling stubborn. He tried again.

“If you wish to serve her, you will save your strength for tomorrow. Your queen will have need of you then, but for now she must rest.”

Brienne spared another look at the door, as if judging its strength. Sansa had ceased beating the wood and resumed crying out for him. It was a madness the knight had never known.

She sighed her resignation before she quit the room. Jon fell to his knees even before she left, soothing Sansa through her door.

“Why?” she sounded utterly betrayed. Each choked sob was a splinter inside him. “You said you wanted me. I _believed_ you.”

“I can hardly breathe for wanting you.”

“I need you,” she said. “I need you inside me.”

A growl worked its way from his chest. He clawed at the barrier between them. This seemed to excite Sansa.

“Yes! Break it down!”

Her arousal formed a haze around his thoughts, intoxicating him beyond reason. He wanted to sink into her, his teeth in her throat and his cock in her quim. The door buckled under his fists.

Pain lanced through the haze. Jon looked down to find blood soaking through the binds on his hands. He slammed his head into the wood.

“Jon?”

“I can’t,” he said.

She whined. “Why?”

He couldn’t quite remember. Slammed his head again.

“Your heat.”

She moaned. “It’s for you, Jon. All for you.”

The beast roared. _Mine!_

What had she said in the crypts? Before they’d lost themselves?

“And when it’s over?” he asked. “Will you still want me?”

He heard her nails against the door.

“Yes, I…I don’t know. I think—yes, Jon, yes, I want you.”

It was enough for the beast. Not enough for a knight. A bitter chuckle escaped him.

“You need to be certain, ñuha jorrāeliarza. Once I have you, I won’t give you up.”

“Please,” she begged, less than a whisper. “I trust you.”

He hummed at that, vibrating with pleasure. “But not yourself?”

She was quiet for a moment. “How can I? I feel as if I’ve no control.”

The beast howled, but the fight was over. Sansa could only truly be his if she chose to be. Choice was borne of conviction, of self-assurance. His next words tasted sour.

“We must break your heat.”

***

It was what she’d wanted—what she’d prayed for. Why did the gods relent now when she was so close to bliss? She needed her alpha, knew he could make it better.

“Get in bed,” he said.

Just the thought of moving away, creating distance between them, made her wince. But to defy him now was intolerable. Sansa obeyed, climbed onto the furs and rested against the pillows.

“Now pleasure yourself for me.”

She gasped at the command. Was he toying with her?

“Tell me how. Please.”

“Your teats,” he said. “Touch them.”

Sansa filled each hand with the soft curve of her breasts. Her fingers swiped one nipple, making her hiss. Curious, she took each tip between her fingers and gave them a gentle pinch. She moaned.

“Good girl.”

A thrill ran through to her toes. Better than touching herself, pleasing her alpha filled her with a sticky warmth. It pulsed to depths she hadn’t known existed. Oh, how she needed him to fill those depths.

“Jon!”

“Yes, Sansa. Call my name.”

She did it again. One hand tugged on the ends of her hair, the pain a welcome relief. But he wanted her to pleasure herself. Fingers shaking, she reached down past her stomach. To her thighs. Trailing through the slick there.

“Can…can you smell it?” she wondered.

His groan made her clench on nothing. “I can. Your pleasure smells delicious.”

Sansa ran her fingers up to her folds. “Delicious?”

“I could feast on you day and night,” he said, “and still crave your sweetness.”

She gasped again, fingers pausing in their motions. Surely he didn’t mean…? The image in her mind, of Jon’s lips against her sex, dragged her right to the edge. But she couldn’t let go just yet.

“I’m covered in slick.”

Another groan. “Such a mess. I’d like to bathe you with my tongue.”

The tip of her finger brushed her nub as he spoke, and she sunk into her peak with a squeal. Sansa rocked her hips into the furs until she could pull another breath. Though he hadn’t touched her, Jon’s scent filled her lungs and that was almost enough. _Almost._

Jon swore. “I’m so proud of you, Sansa.”

Her chest felt too tight. She’d made her alpha happy. But…how could he be happy without his knot inside her? Poor alpha, unable to breed her as he should. She whimpered for him.

“Again.”

Her eyes opened at the command. “What?”

“Touch yourself again,” he said.

Her fingers moved immediately. She put pressure on her nub now, rubbing gentle circles as she only did when she was alone. Would she dare such an action if Jon could see her? She shut her eyes again and pictured him stood there at the end of the bed, watching. The precipice neared, but seemed insurmountable. She panted with effort.

“I can’t,” she said.

“You will!”

A low whine built up in her throat. “ _Jon!_ ”

“Now! Come, Sansa. Come for your alpha.”

The world slipped out from beneath her. She fell freely, confident that Jon would catch her. His voice made it past the ringing in her ears, a beautiful growl like that of a wolf. She sighed, nearly content.

“Again.”

It would be a long night. Jon instructed her to push one, then two fingers inside herself, again and again until she lost count of her peaks. Her hands were stiff, legs splayed wide when she drifted away.

***

Jon slept well into the next day. By the time he woke the sun had begun its descent. He swapped his bloody binds with fresh ones and dressed. Stomach empty past the point of pain, he went for food.

Whispers followed him throughout the keep, the courtyard, and down to the kitchens. He swiped a bit of bread and hard cheese before hunkering down in a dark corner out of the way. Two scullery maids burst through the far entrance, arms laden with untouched dishes.

“…wonder if she’s ill.”

“Starks don’t fall ill,” another said.

“But it’s strange, innit? The queen’s never been abed so much as she has of late.”

The two set their burdens down and picked at the plates of food.

“Thomas said he saw her with young Lord Manderly.”

A new voice joined the others. “Didn’t you hear? Manderly spent the night with the maester. I boiled his water meself.”

Their words spoiled Jon’s appetite, such was his distaste for gossip. He brushed breadcrumbs from his breeches and stood from his squat position. When he stepped into the light, three pairs of eyes clapped onto him. He stared them down before he turned on his heel to leave.

Darkness fell just as he returned to his chambers. Had Sansa truly been abed all day? His cock hardened at the memory of the night before.

He had spilled there in her solar, driven over the edge by her pleading moans.

“I want your seed,” she’d said after her fifth peak. “Please, Jon! Give me your seed!”

Did queens often speak so? He knew Sansa didn’t. It was the abandon in her voice that undid him. Like she was too ravenous to feel any shame.

His fingers brushed down his shaft now only to find that his knot had gone down. Impossibly, he was still weary. He pulled the furs closer.

A new morning came with the brightest dawn he’d seen in the North. Now he felt hollow with hunger. His knuckles itched. Jon unwrapped the cloth to find his marks fully scabbed over. He flexed his fingers a few times before preparing for the day.

Dressed, he walked to the great hall to break his fast with the rest of the castle. He paused by Sansa’s door, but she wasn’t there. Hardly any trace of her scent remained.

With the brightness came an uncommon warmth, the clouds dissipated to reveal a cool blue sky. He entered the hall to find only a few lords scattered about, some members of the household grouped together. Sansa nursed a cup of tea at the head table. She looked up at Jon’s entrance. He walked to the front steadily, giving her the chance to object.

“You’ll give them more fodder,” she whispered as he sat.

“For what?”

She cut her eyes at him. “You know very well what they’ll think. You’re at my side, and my heat is broken.”

Yes, the gossips would make of that what they would. Surely so slight a thing could not damage her reputation?

“I suppose you want my thanks,” she continued.

This dance again. It rankled, after the progress they had made in being open with one another. A cup was brought to him. He waited for the serving girl to leave before he spoke.

“Not at all. The feat was yours, if I recall.”

A small huff betrayed her embarrassment. Yes, that was it. Her actions were unbecoming of a proper lady, and she feared his judgment. Couldn’t a queen decide for herself what was proper?

“You belittle the effect of your words,” Sansa said. “I could not have done _that_ without your assistance.”

So she wished to share the blame, but not the achievement? That was fine. He felt no shame in his actions. They were a product of his affection for her.

“My presence prompted your heat. It was only right I assist you in ending it.”

Beneath the table, her foot nudged his heel. She said her next words into the brim of her cup.

“I _am_ grateful. For your presence, as well as your assistance.”

When he turned Sansa was sipping her tea, eyes forward. The look of a secret shone there, and he was in on it. He pursed his lips to suppress a smile.

“I pray you’ll have further need of it.”

She coughed once, pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. When plates were set before them conversation halted. Jon scarcely took a breath as he tucked into his meal. When that hollow feeling subsided, he turned to Sansa again. She picked at her sweet frumenty, delicate as ever.

“Are you not hungry?”

Still focused on her meal, she arched a brow. “Starving. But if I eat as you do, everyone will assume we have mated.”

“You should not prolong your suffering on their account.”

That made her laugh. “Is that not what a good queen does?”

Jon lowered his voice. “Your people love you. They worry when you don’t eat.”

She bit her lip as if this had not occurred to her. The Northern folk, with their old gods, had no need for the Mother—they had one in Sansa. He daren’t say such a thing to her, however. She ate with more heartiness after his words.

He met Brienne in the training yard. If she had questions, she kept them to herself. Together, they fulfilled the role of master-at-arms. Maybe an hour had passed when the horse master, with the help of two stable boys, readied horses for a group.

Wyllem Manderly emerged from the maester’s turret with his face still swollen, the mute squire at his side. Jon watched with stiff posture as Manderly pulled on riding gloves and mounted his horse. He didn’t relax until Manderly was well clear of the castle gates. Red hair entered his periphery.

Sansa stood at the battlements, her back straight. She spoke to a guard who then made his way down the steps and into the training yard. He approached Jon.

“You are to speak with the queen in her office,” the guard said.

Jon checked the battlements again, but she was gone. He nodded. There was some internal debate as to whether or not he should wash himself after the sparring, but he didn’t want to keep her waiting.

The window of her office hung open. He heard the sounds from the training yard below before he found Sansa, seated behind her desk. He bent his head as he approached.

“Read this,” she said, pushing a scroll toward him.

The letter was sent by some maester. Jon read it twice, then handed it back to her.

“What does Brandon Tallhart want with me?”

She set the scroll aside, averting her gaze. “He is the cousin of Eddara Tallhart. The woman you danced with at the feast.”

“Ah.”

She shook her head. “Tell me you’ve given them no cause for quarrel. Eddara is the Lady of Torrhen’s Square.”

“I…rejected her,” he said. Sansa tilted her head in that shrewd way she had. “The lady threw herself at me. I will admit to being rather forceful.”

“I asked you to be courteous,” she reproached.

Jon leaned against the desk. “You also asked me to spill inside you.”

“Don’t!”

Remarkably, she was even more beautiful in her annoyance. Chin jutted out, eyes sharp, he wanted nothing more than to kiss her. What did he owe Eddara Tallhart, or her cousin, for that matter?

“Now is not the time for squabbles. If you must fight, fight those who would do us harm.”

 _Us._ Did she realize how her speech linked them together? Jon took a moment to absorb her words. Nodded. The gesture seemed to appease her.

“Shall I apologize to Lady Tallhart?”

Sansa sighed. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that. Brandon will be here in a day or two, and I suspect your presence would only provoke him further.”

Jon knew what she would suggest. He swallowed his protests down.

“Where would you have me go?”

His compliance made her blink. A bit of sorrow touched her expression.

“I’ve written to Lady Cerwyn. Her castle is only a half day’s ride away. Should she accept you as her guest, you would be gone only a sennight.”

A sennight could change everything. It was nearly the amount of time he’d known his cousin. The room blurred as he tried to accept it. Her logic was sound, of course. But to leave her side, even for so short a time? Every feeling revolted.

“And Lady Cerwyn? You trust her?”

Sansa smiled at that. “She won’t fall into a heat for you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Jon hoped to one day amuse Sansa as much as her private jokes did. As it was, he dismissed himself from her office. He imagined she had more work to do.

In the training yard he observed a group try their hands at archery. Jon had better proficiency with a sword himself, but he was a sufficient enough marksman to offer instruction. Ser Brienne left him to it as she saw to more pressing matters about the castle.

He washed at the basin before supper. Would it be his last at Winterfell? If Jon was to believe his fears, then he would never see Sansa again after this night. But he had to have faith in their connection. It wasn’t just heat that drew them together. It couldn’t be.

***

Much as she wished to eat alone, Sansa supped in the great hall.

Was Jon angry with her for sending him away? It wasn’t as if she had much choice, not with the impending consequences of their behavior set to arrive any day. No more than forty leagues would separate them.

Lady Cerwyn’s reply came just before Sansa left her office for the day. It was a gracious acceptance of her queen’s request, complete with an assurance that the Cerwyn household was prepared for an alpha’s presence.

Still, anything could happen. One of the women there could catch Jon’s fancy or worse, he could mark someone. Would he even wish to return to Winterfell in a sennight?

Sansa put it all from her mind when they took their meals at each other’s side. They spoke little. She preoccupied herself with savoring his presence. His scent, though not as pungent as before, still gave her calm. He leaned toward her.

“Could I walk you back? When you’re finished eating?”

She looked down at her remaining venison. Cringed.

“I’m finished.”

The corners of Jon’s mouth pulled up. “Take your time.”

Was he teasing her? She took extra care with her meat then, chewed slowly. She took the barest of sips from her wine, trying to make it last. Nothing seemed to upset his patience. He sat quietly until her plate was clear.

They left the great hall arm in arm.

“Lady Cerwyn expects you by tomorrow evening,” Sansa said.

Jon’s brows drew together. “Will you…” He shook his head, dismissing the thought.

“Please don’t leave me in suspense,” she said, only partially in jest.

He swallowed before speaking again. “Will you see me off?”

Her steps halted. Jon’s eyes widened. The vulnerability there transformed his already handsome features into something rather beautiful. Sansa committed the expression to memory.

“Of course.”

She resumed walking, pulling him along now. They entered the great keep, their steps slowing all the while, and tread through the halls as if each stone might slip out from beneath their feet. It was too soon to part.

As they neared her chambers, her anxiety rose. Would they not say another word before their separation? Would Jon think her uncaring? Just before they reached her door, Sansa put a hand on his arm.

“Wait.”

He released a deep breath.

“Yes?”

It was an impetuous thought, but fear allowed her to be brave. And hadn’t this man heard her peak last night?

“I would like to give you something before you leave.”

His smile was gentle, restrained. “You needn’t trouble yourself. I shall take your favor with me.”

Her head shook. “I don’t mean to give you a token, but a…a memory.”

When Sansa wet her lips, Jon’s eyes flickered down. They rose up again, a darker shade, and they both knew. It was inevitable as the leaves that fell in the winter winds. His hands came up to cradle her face. Sansa’s breath caught as he leaned in. But he paused.

“Are you certain?”

His words tickled her nose. She lifted her face to his in response. Jon’s lips caught her own, soft but insistent. It was the kind of kiss she’d dreamed of as a girl. One where she didn’t care for the burning in her lungs, just so long as it didn’t end. Her hands were heavy, shaking as they reached out for him. She found his shoulders and slid her fingers over them, up until they tangled in his hair.

Sansa drifted through the seconds. There was but one certainty, and it was Jon. She was kissing _Jon_. Her nails grazed over his scalp, and she felt his moan against her mouth.

They broke apart to breathe, still clutching one another. She didn’t open her eyes, just panted with him. Took in his exhalations as he did hers. Jon’s chest shifting against her own.

“Last night. You said something in High Valyrian.”

He curled a lock of her hair around his finger. “Ñuha jorrāeliarza. It’s what you are to me.”

She opened her eyes then. “Will you tell me what it means?”

“When I return.”

Sansa pulled her hand back to slap his chest, but he caught her wrist. He grinned crookedly, causing the corners of his eyes to crinkle.

“Sleep well,” Jon said.

He brushed a kiss to her knuckles before he released her.

The morning was cold again. Sansa wrapped her cloak about herself as she stood above the courtyard. Jon mounted his horse to leave Winterfell, but he hesitated.

He turned back. Watched her for a moment before raising his hand in farewell. Sansa did her best to smile back. She held her hand in the air ineffectively. That hand wished to grasp his cloak, pull him down from his horse.

They had work to do.

She watched Jon ride away. Sent her prayers with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >:)


	7. Tear Out Your Tenderness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Jon exchange letters for the duration of their time apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been a while, yeah? Please don't be angry!  
> I'm really no good at epistolary writing, but I tried to keep Jonsa's connection intact while they were separated. This chapter moves the plot, but focuses on character. I enjoy writing dialogue, so the letters may come off that way.  
> I will be updating this fic more frequently! The pandemic threw me off, but I'm back to writing and incredibly grateful for your patience.

Brandon Tallhart imposed his presence upon the castle with the claim that his cousin needed time to rest before their journey home, though Eddara’s heat had broken three nights ago. At least he’d calmed since his arrival—the news of Jon’s absence was not taken well. Tallhart demanded the opportunity to defend his family’s honor. He was silenced by the assertion that he dishonored his house with his behavior.

Sansa wrote Jon first. As his only family in the North, it seemed reasonable to inquire after his journey. His reply came the next morning.

_Sansa,_

_I had every intention of informing you of my safe travels, though your waiting letter made my welcome to Castle Cerwyn all the better._

_Now I understand your joke. Lady Cerwyn is an alpha, is she not? I was under the impression that only males could present. I am happy to be wrong—it lightens the burden. Not that my connection to you is, by any means, a burden._

_Though I am further South, this castle lacks the warmth of Winterfell. Lady Jonelle is not unkind, but I am grown too accustomed to your own graces. I hope any conflict is soon resolved. If you have need of me, you must write at once._

_Yours,_

_Jon_

Sansa read it for days until she supposed enough time had passed to merit a response. There wasn’t much to tell, at least not much that would interest him. She debated being terribly forward in her letter with an admission of missing him.

And, of course, that nagging worry never truly left. What if he’d gone into another rut in the space between their letters? What if he’d found an omega who would not deny him? How could she chance writing of sentiment with so much unknown?

 _Jon said, ‘when I return’_ , she reminded herself. _When, not if._

Of all she’d learned of him, Jon was no liar. It would’ve been so easy to go back on his promises to her, but he’d never done so. Not even when she begged him to.

She shuddered her embarrassment at the memory.

_“I need it.”_

_“What do you need?”_

_“Ah! Please!”_

_“Please what, Sansa?”_

_“Your seed. I need you to fill me.”_

_“Need me to give you every last drop?”_

_“Yes, yes! Knot me, Jon, please.”_

_“I’ll push it inside you, my queen.”_

_“Gods, yes. Spill inside me.”_

_“I will, Sansa. Peak for me again. Break your heat and I’ll fill you up.”_

Sansa still awaited the fulfillment of that promise. It was silly, to fear words of sentiment when she’d already been so bold with him. But wasn’t it wise to guard her heart more carefully than her honor? She’d survived being stripped of her honor before. If Jon wounded her heart, she might never fully recover. How long was it since she’d given a man her trust?

It would be so easy to dismiss Jon as a stranger, but he’d exposed himself to her already. She knew his vulnerabilities.

Jon would come back to her. She chose to believe it.

***

_Jon,_

_I must admit that Winterfell, too, is colder in your absence. I’d not realized how lonely I was before your arrival. I have my maids and my guards, but their affections have little to do with me or my person._

_I hope you use this time to become closer acquainted with the North and its people. I assure you that I have everything well in hand. You need not worry, cousin. My one request is that you come home._

_Sansa_

Jon read the letter ten times over, at least. She missed him, as good as admitted it. Better still, she’d called Winterfell his home.

He would make it his home if she allowed. They said dragons planted no trees, but to have roots in the place of his mother’s childhood…the thought was a kind of joy bordering on pain. Sansa would never ask a service that might do him dishonor. Even without her love, he thinks he could be content just to stay at her side.

_But…what if she marries another?_

Not tomorrow, maybe not in a moon’s turn, but one day a man might make her an offer she could not refuse. That she would always put the North first was her great weakness. Any true threat to the North had power over her.

He would eliminate those threats. If Sansa were to choose another man, so be it. But she would not barter her happiness away for her people’s freedom. It should be her choice to marry.

 _No,_ the beast whispered. It was quieter now, but not silent. _She is for me and no other._ Jon could not argue that she was his in some capacity—his to protect, at the very least. He wanted her; gods, he wanted her. They’d yet to discuss if she wanted him in return, interrupted by a fool’s bombasity.

It was fortunate for Brandon Tallhart that Jon was at Castle Cerwyn and not within arm’s reach.

When he first caught Lady Jonelle’s scent he hadn’t understood. She smelled wrong to him, like sweat and smoke. She’d laughed at his confusion, and that ended the mystery.

Some of the servants gave him those now familiar glances of interest, but they avoided him for the most part. He wondered if they knew he’d already found his mate. Or perhaps having an alpha as their lady gave them a sort of tolerance to his scent. Either way, he managed to avoid any more conflict.

The godswood here was smaller, its trees shorter than those of Winterfell. Still, it was quiet. Jon visited it in the morning. He took most meals alone, conscious of the fact that he was poor company. Whereas the conversation between himself and Sansa seemed to flow with little effort, he could never give a proper response to Lady Jonelle’s comments. The woman was determined to find fault with him, so it seemed better to hold his tongue. This taciturnity was ill-received, however.

“You’re hiding something, young prince,” she said one night over supper. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed. And you can be sure that I’ll weed out your secrets.” She laughed into her cup.

After Sansa’s precision of speech, such forthrightness felt base.

“I’ll only disappoint on closer inspection,” Jon said. “I’m afraid you won’t find much to interest you.”

Lady Cerwyn scoffed. “I find interest in many things.”

He bit his smile back. “I’m sure you do, my lady. It isn’t your easy entertainment which I doubt.”

“There is much to entertain in the North,” she said, misunderstanding him. “As a point of pride, I must have your meaning.”

Jon tapped a finger on the table before speaking. “You’ll find no scandal here. I dislike it, almost as much as you dislike everything. That is your entertainment, is it not my lady? To be displeased?”

Her mouth wrinkled into a frown. No, she didn’t like being chided. “We have standards of conduct here.”

“Rightly so,” he was quick to amend. “There’s respectability in a rigid standard, don’t you agree?”

“Aye.” Her frown eased. “Do you know, your uncle had standards, too. Honorable Ned Stark, even to his last day.”

He nodded. “I admire him for that. He was a good man, I’m sure.”

“A shame you never met him. Were the circumstances of your birth different, you might’ve learned something of honor.”

He sighed, tired of this quibble. His longing for home grew with each word from the so-called lady’s mouth.

Alone in his guest chambers, Jon read Sansa’s letters again. He ran his thumb over the rose embroidered into her handkerchief. The scent was faint, but a hint of honey still remained. He relived that moment, the gift she’d bestowed upon him.

Her kiss had nearly brought him to his knees. It was everything he knew of her, given to him freely. Her longing, her fears, her bravery. Her petal soft lips exploring his own.

What had she done to him? But a taste of her mouth, and he was ruined for any other woman. He couldn’t pretend otherwise. He wrote her another letter before sleep.

In the morning, as per Sansa’s request, he spent more time with the people of the North. Several of the men went out for a brief hunt. Jon accompanied them. While the Northmen were no Dothraki warriors, he found that many of them were fine riders.

***

_Sansa,_

_You have my every confidence. My only concern is for your habit of taking everything upon yourself. You are not alone, though I understand your loneliness. I would never wish such a state upon you._

_Lady Cerwyn has shown great concern for the circumstances of my birth. Her distaste for my brooding exposes an admirable respect for your family, I think. It is only for her queen’s sake that she would house a dreary bastard._

_As for your maids and guards, they would not love you so if you were not yourself. It is your compassion that wins loyalty, your heart that has won mine. I do not wish to burden you with this confession. I wish only to return home to you, as soon as you’ll allow._

_Yours,_

_Jon_

The fire in her solar burned low as she sat, Jon’s letter in her lap. A confession. The words spun in her mind, not yet fastened to any meaning. She tried to count the days since they’d met. It was too short a time for words of the heart to have any truth.

Would they not hold truth if she’d written them? And why shouldn’t his feelings match her own? Had the gods not brought them together for the purpose of completion?

No, no, she couldn’t fill her questions with answers on Jon’s behalf. She’d done it before, imagined her own meanings for a man’s words only to learn her thinking was too hopeful to be realistic. She needed more than words as proof of Jon’s heart.

It was too good a letter, she decided. She hid it with the others, tucked in a polished box beneath hairpins and cauls.

_In dreams she returned to King’s Landing. She kept her head down, the sun too bright for her eyes. The crowd roared and she knew it was happening again. The smell of blood. He was gone, but she wanted to see. She’d missed her father’s face for years now. Janos Slynt wore an ugly sneer as he held Ned Stark’s head before the masses. The wolf inside her growled. It grew louder until Slynt could hear it, too. He turned, his sneer gone, but he didn’t look at her. A white wolf, silent at her side, flashed its teeth. She wondered at its size until, awestruck, she realized he was a direwolf. He didn’t belong in the South. She could ride him to Winterfell, release him in the North so they would both be free. First, he leapt at Slynt. Two heads fell to the ground._

Sansa had never seen a direwolf. In childhood Robb told her the men had found one in the wolfswood, killed by a stag. It wasn’t long after that she’d left home, gone to that city with her father and Arya.

Arya might have escaped without a white wolf to protect her. She was as good with a bow as the boys, always playing with cutlery at the table when Septa Mordane wasn’t watching. Young as they were, the slightest chance still remained that her sister survived…she’d never been found by the Lannister soldiers.

The uncertainty would make Sansa sick. She ignored the plate brought to her solar and went straight to the library to speak with her guests.

Eddara Tallhart would return to Torrhen’s Square with a husband on her arm. The promise of a ceremony in the godswood, and the chance to retain the Tallhart name for the sake of lineage, quelled any lingering animosity. Little preparation was needed, as only Brandon and Sansa would bear witness to the vows said before the heart tree.

When next she saw the maester, he carried two scrolls. One bore a merman sigil, the other a dragon.

Lord Wyman sent his deepest apologies for his grandson’s actions, and thanked the queen for sparing his life. He also inquired further as to the precautions the Harbor need take. Sansa wrote an immediate reply.

The second scroll she turned over in her hands. Were Jon here, he would’ve received it. Certainly, his aunt’s response held intimacies which Sansa should not intrude upon. But should she keep the letter safe until Jon’s return, or correct its course toward Castle Cerwyn? He had trusted her to oversee his correspondence before. It was only fair she show him the same confidence, and forfeit her control over it.

She wrote her own letter for her cousin, bound the two scrolls with a leather cord, and sought out the maester once more.

***

“What do you reckon she tastes like?”

“A finer wine than I’ve ever had.”

“Really? I’d think she’s sweeter. She ripened in the South.”

“Why don’t you ask the dragon?”

“Do I look like a fool?”

It was the first conversation of its kind Jon had overheard, though they likely occurred on a daily basis. Sansa said the people would make their own assumptions about them, he just couldn’t believe the weeds of rumor had spread so quickly. Was she enduring such gossip? His teeth clenched at the thought. He’d heard men talk of his own kin before, somehow this was different. Perhaps because he, also, had wondered what Sansa tasted of.

The pair fell silent as Jon broke through the tree line, Ser Condon at his flank. The elder knight spoke before Jon’s temper could overpower him.

“The stag went back east. Go along the stream to pick up its trail.”

The boys nodded, one nocking an arrow as he ran through the brush. When Jon turned back, Ser Condon inclined his head.

“I wouldn’t pay them any mind, my lord. The tall one squires me. He’s a good lad, just doesn’t know when to shut his mouth.”

Jon grunted in response.

They’d caught but a few hares and one boar in the day’s hunt. The horses they rode were small of stature, but sure of foot. The terrain could turn an ankle with the slightest misstep, but there had yet been no injury to horse or man.

Ser Condon provided decent company in the wood. He kept silent in pursuit of game, only speaking to offer wisdom. They continued on ‘til they’d found the stag. Jon watched Condon gut the innards, drain the blood, then cut through its hocks to make the carcass easy to carry.

The boys’ chatter turned to happier topics as the party carried fresh meat back to the castle.

The maester there found Jon upon his return. Two scrolls, bound in cord, came from Winterfell.

He supped alone that night. Daenerys’ letter, with the dragon sealed into red wax, was likely the most urgent of the two. The direwolf sigil pulled at his attention, made him wonder what news Sansa had to send.

Fingers scarcely clean of crumbs, he tore the scroll open.

_Jon,_

_I hope your aunt sends her affections along with her queries. Such a nephew, surely, deserves affection. I believe my father would share the sentiment._

_Lady Cerwyn is not known for her tact, I fear. I hope she has not given so great an offense as to drive you from the North. The old magic thrives in the presence of an alpha, and there are so few left. I do not wish to burden you with this information, but to assure you of your place amongst my people, now and always._

_In three days’ time my guests will return to Torrhen’s Square. I would ask you to ride for Winterfell on the third day, should you still wish to._

_Yours affectionately,_

_Sansa_

Now and always? He didn’t want to presume significance with those words but it was difficult not to, particularly so when she offered such a valediction.

Three days’ time. The party had left for the hunt at dawn before any correspondence could be delivered. Had Sansa written the letter yesterday? If so, he could be on his way home the very morning after next.

It was still strange to long for one place. Viserys always longed for King’s Landing, but Jon had no memory of it. He was ill-suited for the heat, anyways. His dark hair seemed to draw warmth, flavor his skin with the salt of sweat. There was no predicting the harshness of winter, but the North was pleasantly brisk in spring. Furs kept him warm enough.

He hadn’t a clue as to how Sansa bore her omega’s heat. Under the weight of her dresses, skin searing with desire, it was a wonder she’d not burned. Surely a lighter fabric would offer more comfort.

But she wouldn’t have retreated in the face of such vexations. No, Sansa was a lady through and through. It had taken him days to discover her torment, and even then she gave little away but for the cries of need he heard from within her chambers. Her exposed agonies were not the same thing as revealing oneself; Sansa had yet to lay herself bare to him.

If he could but glimpse past her composure…what passion lay just beneath that tranquil surface? A woman who would sacrifice herself for the sake of her people must possess more _affection_ than any one man could deserve.

The next day strained at Jon’s nerves as the light crept, first beyond the horizon, then toward its apex, and finally back down again. He thanked Lady Cerwyn for her hospitality that evening, took Ser Condon’s hand in a show of respect.

He could not wait for the stable master to wake. Darkness still shrouded the morning as Jon saddled his horse and made for Winterfell, Daenerys’ letter still unopened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: reunion!


	8. Widening Gyres

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa reunite, but not without complication.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope each of you are safe and well. Posting before editing because I think we could all use a pick me up.  
> Fair warning, a lot happens in this chapter and I'm a dramatic bitch.  
> I've already written the next chapter, so it WILL be posted within a week.  
> Enjoy!

The Tallharts plus one groom left early in the morning for the first leg of their journey home. Sansa kept busy, but her mind nurtured an eager sort of joy.

They finally overtook midday, but there was still no sign of Jon.

As evening neared she walked the ramparts, waiting to hear something from the guards. More time passed and worry gnawed at her. She watched from the battlements for a rider. None came. It was too dark to see when she retired without supper.

Did he not receive her letter? Worse, had his aunt’s letter changed their situation? Daenerys’ words might have demanded Jon return to King’s Landing, or pull on his sense of family loyalty.

Sansa nearly regretted forwarding the letter to its intended audience. If she kept it, at least he would have returned to Winterfell. It was easier this way, though. Jon made his choice, and this way he didn’t feed her hopes. Better to let them starve quickly.

She only wondered if he might have bid her farewell.

The rejection stung. Still, she preferred it to the other possibility. If she entertained the thought that he hadn’t simply left, that he was instead harmed somehow…She preferred her wounded pride to more grief, to waking one morning with the discovery that another beloved face had faded from memory.

Greyce hummed where she stood combing out Sansa’s hair. Her mind must have been elsewhere, for the comb tugged with a touch more enthusiasm than usual. Brienne said nothing, but her eyes were round with concern. Once Greyce finished the braid, Sansa was alone.

Her body ached after many turns beneath the furs. She abandoned sleep, lit a candle, and went to the vanity. Her box of hair things sat innocently enough. Its effects, however, offended her.

She extracted his letters.

After all this time, she was still a romantic idiot. She would brook Jon’s betrayal before she let harm befall him. But she would _not_ cry at the thought of him harmed.

The most recent scroll held several infractions, mentions of the heart. The flame flickered dangerously close to the paper. It would be too easy.

She held the letter’s edge just above her candle. The light hurt her eyes, but she didn’t blink. A corner released smoke, started to singe.

Four sharp knocks. They sounded familiar.

Sansa hid the scrolls again and entered her solar.

“Come in.”

She recognized the silhouette.

“You should bar this door,” Jon said.

The flame illuminated his smile, or maybe it was the other way around. The sight of him made her imprudent. She dropped the candle to the table, extinguishing the light. Her fingers hit the back of a chair. She used the furnishings to trace her path in the darkness.

Three steps and Jon found her, pulled her into his arms. He smelled of night air, his clothes still cool from the journey. His breath, though, was warm on her neck.

Jon’s warmth set loose all the dread she’d tucked away. She leaned into him, clasped her wrists around his waist. He was solid, tracing her spine through her shift.

“My beloved,” he whispered. “That’s what it means.”

The endearment. It slipped her mind in the panic. _Beloved._ And to think, if he’d never come back the phrase would remain a mystery. She swallowed the sob built up in her throat.

“You’re late.”

He ran his fingers through her braid, pulling it loose. “I left before sunrise. The journey was eventful.”

She broke free of the hug, little good it did her. She could hardly check for blood in the dark.

“Are you hurt?”

“No,” he said, “but we must sit. I have a story to tell you.”

Stories disappointed, in her experience. She liked hearing his voice, though. And she wasn’t ready for him to leave.

“Is it a good story?”

Jon gave a muted laugh. “It ends happily.”

“Will you tend the fire while I dress?”

He pinched the material between his fingers like he hadn’t noticed it before. Cleared his throat.

“Of course.”

***

“A direwolf? Are you sure?”

Sansa was at his side now, tied up in a fine robe. She seemed shy of his gaze, but he couldn’t help looking. Her hair fell in a way he’d never seen before, shrouding her face.

“It stood taller than me.”

Her eyes went wide. Jon wore a similar expression upon meeting the creature. He remembered freezing in place before his horse threw him.

“Where?” she asked, direct.

“Edge of the wolfswood, just before dawn.”

She blinked, turned to watch the fire. The line of her nose stood out against the dark. Had he ever noticed that charming bump in it before?

“Was it aggressive?”

He shook his head. “It circled me, kept its nose to the ground. The horse ran, though. I spent most of the afternoon following its trail.”

The wolf approached him when he stood from his fall. He didn’t breathe for the whole encounter. When the sky brightened it took off deeper into the wood.

“It doesn’t make sense. Direwolves don’t live on this side of the Wall. And to be so large and never seen…”

“Would’ve been hard to spot in winter,” he said. “It had white fur.”

Something about that held significance to Sansa. She didn’t speak, brows pushed together in thought. He looked away, took a deep breath.

“It behaved as if…the wolf came very close. It was almost like it knew me.”

“It might have,” she monotoned. Jon stared unblinkingly until she continued. “You’re an alpha—and a Stark, as well. A normal wolf wouldn’t have bothered, but direwolves are smarter. They might know a Stark.”

There was no pomp in her voice. The first time he’d been called a Stark, and Sansa said it as a matter of course. He just looked at her, knowing he loved her.

They spoke of the event, what it could mean, until her voice was hoarse. She explained warging to him, told stories she’d heard as a girl of skinchangers and giants. Her tone turned wistful when she spoke of childhood.

Silence reigned when she set to work on her hair, combing out her braid before recreating it in a neater fashion. She might have thought he wanted to learn the skill with how he observed her nimble motions.

“Oh!” Sansa tied her hair with a ribbon. “The happy ending. What was it?”

She couldn’t be so naïve. Or maybe she was being modest. He leaned into her field of vision to give her a pointed look. Sansa, endearingly, laughed at herself.

“I must be very tired,” she said.

“Of course! I’m sorry for keeping you.”

She laughed again. “I don’t think you are.”

He couldn’t argue that. Still, he didn’t want to rob her of any more sleep. She stood with him, took a step toward the door. He caught her hand.

“I missed you a great deal.”

Her smile was coy. “Did you?”

“It was _very_ dark when I left Castle Cerwyn,” he said in reply.

Sansa gave his hand a gentle tug. “You deserve a good rest, then.”

He stepped into her, cupped the back of her head with his free hand. Her lashes fanned down before he pressed a kiss between her brows. When he drew back her eyes followed his lips. That alone could have sent him into a rut, he reckoned. But she wasn’t in heat.

She lifted their still joined hands and pressed her cheek into his palm.

“I missed you, too.”

Jon returned to his chambers. He was already beneath the furs when he remembered Daenerys’ letter.

***

Sansa was grateful to wake with a sore throat. The pain kept Jon fresh in her mind, proved his homecoming was more than a dream. Just as the white wolf was, apparently, more than a dream. Part of her couldn’t quite believe it.

Why was a direwolf this far south?

A few eyes lingered when she entered the great hall to break her fast. She’d taken most meals in her solar of late. A girl brought honeyed tea to soothe Sansa’s throat. She took a piece of bread and smeared it with preserves. Then a hush fell over the hall.

Jon stood in the entryway, curls unbound. His boots thumped as he approached her.

“May I?”

Bags hung beneath his eyes. She turned to nod at the closest serving girl, who proceeded to set Jon’s place at her side. He didn’t speak, just hunched over a plate of sausage and boiled eggs. Something in the set of his shoulders was distressing.

Meal finished, he turned to face her.

“I need to speak with you.”

What had occurred since they last spoke? She leaned back, made her spine flush with her chair.

“I have some time this morning.”

He nodded. “I’ll wait in your office.”

With that Jon quit the great hall.

Sansa finished her tea before she stood to follow, taking care to greet two members of house Cassel on her way out. She entered her office to find Jon pacing.

“What’s wrong?”

“Sansa, I’m sorry.”

She moved deeper into the room. “For what?”

He turned on his heel and pressed his knuckles to her desk. His eyes stayed down as he spoke.

“When I returned to my chambers I remembered the other scroll. My aunt’s.”

The letter. He hadn’t read it before they reunited? And this made him remorseful, somehow? He was leaving. Yesterday a dream came to fruition, today a nightmare.

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” she deadpanned.

“I wanted to delay—”

“Well at least you’ve come to say goodbye. Thank you for that courtesy.”

“I’m not…” He turned so she couldn’t see his face, shoulders sagging defeat. “Viserys is coming.”

So it wasn’t her heart in danger, but her people.

She laughed.

 _Selfish fool._ Her people depended upon her and she thought of her own happiness in times of crisis. She couldn’t stop giggling at the hilarity—Viserys was coming, with an army, and she was the great hope of her people. Jon lifted his eyes then, a look of alarmed confusion there as he watched her.

“That’s amusing?”

Sansa shook her head, put the back of her hand to her mouth. “The gods love testing us.”

It clearly wasn’t the kind of joke he enjoyed. Jon took two steps in her direction, something in his posture more beast than man.

“And if he makes it to Winterfell? How am I supposed to protect you?”

“I don’t know,” she gasped, “I can’t, I _can’t_ think.”

His hands came up to bracket her face; it was like he tried to hold her mind still. She held onto his forearms, anchoring herself to him.

Eyes closed, she could acknowledge the problem. The method she used to solve problems took over, giving her a structure to cling to. First, she needed information. Jon produced his aunt’s letter and waited while she read it.

_…The king sent troops ahead to the Riverlands. He insists on accepting your cousin’s surrender himself…_

If the Targaryen army somehow made it past the Moat they would be in a perfect position to take White Harbor. By land, the city had few defenses. And if their invasion failed, if the army doubled back, what would become of the Riverlands? Her mother’s people would be the victims of Viserys’ ire. Would she could separate the king from his army.

Her thoughts spun into an idea.

“Viserys will enter Winterfell peacefully.”

Jon took a deep breath. “You don’t know him.”

“No, but you do. You’ll invite him to survey his kingdom.”

She watched him think. He stared at the desk, rubbing his fingers together. How much sleep had he gotten after reading that letter?

“Viserys is vain enough to temper himself,” he said.

“If he thinks the people are on his side, might he leave his army in the Riverlands?”

He rolled his neck. “Maybe. If I tell him the people want a savior, probably.”

It was a place to start. Jon cut parchment while Sansa pulled out the chair for him to sit. She supplied the ink, then went to fetch herself a chair from the corner. She had her own letters to write.

One for Lord Manderly. One for Lord Reed. One for the Blackfish. One for Arianne Martell. By the time she organized her thoughts, Jon passed his attempted letter across the desk to her. She tried not to smile as she read.

“You’re not a gifted liar, are you?”

Jon shrugged. “There wasn’t much need for it with the Dothraki. And Viserys doesn’t tolerate dishonesty.”

Sansa shook her head. “Well, I would be suspicious of a promise of loyalty from people I’d never met.”

“You’re right—a good lie must hold a bit of truth.”

She smiled at that. Jon softened for a moment, his eyes going warm.

“Say that my people are losing faith in me because of…my unstable behavior. Tell them I went into heat for you.”

His mouth set into a thin line. “I won’t tell him about our connection.”

“It’s perfect,” she insisted. “I’ll look weak.”

“My uncle will hurt you if he suspects I might care.”

“So tell him you’re manipulating me.”

Jon looked bone weary. She reached across the desk to take his hand.

“All my life men have underestimated me,” she said. “If Viserys thinks he can take Winterfell without a fight, he’ll drop his guard. Lord Reed will take him through the marshes by boat, cutting the troops off at the Neck.”

He sighed. “Severing the head from the body.”

He clearly didn’t like the plan. Still, it was the only one they had. Sansa passed the rest of the morning drafting her letters.

She spent the afternoon with her advisors, going over plans for agriculture in the coming spring. Plots of land were left unattended, most people converging in villages to get through the winter. Steads with no claimant would be redistributed to anyone who could submit a bid with a plan for sowing the land.

After such a day, she retreated to her chambers for a hot bath. Jon joined her for supper. They didn’t speak much, both drained. She picked the peas from her pie as she ate.

“Why did you think I was leaving?” he asked.

Sansa wished she could take her earlier words back. They only served to mortify her. She’d learned to hold her tongue as a child, but Jon made her clumsy.

“I always assume the worst,” she said. “It makes life easier.”

“And the worst, for you, was my leaving?”

The implication of his words nettled her. Her assumptions that morning were selfish and, ultimately, incorrect. She took a long drink of cider, hoping it hid the heat in her face.

“I must not be very creative.”

He thought something of that, but chose not to respond.

***

The next days passed like the turning of a page. Both their mornings were filled with meetings and letters. When Jon teased her about sharing the desk, Sansa informed him that her father’s office was unoccupied. Though the idea had its appeal, he was loath to leave her side.

In the afternoons he and Brienne worked together in finding twelve men to accompany him when the time came. They would need to be strong fighters, as well as discreet. When Jon rode out to meet his kin, the Northmen would go a long way in convincing Viserys to leave his armies behind.

Jon claimed the tedious task of counting coin when Sansa, as usual, took too much upon herself. She said he was better with numbers, anyways. It was an empty kind of compliment when she’d yet to speak frankly on their situation.

They seemed to speak of everything _but_ their feelings. And they’d not kissed since the first time. It made sense, of course. There was too much to do and now, with Viserys on his way, they had no time for such intimacies.

They took most meals together, sharing the quiet. Thoughts and fears plagued his mind at every moment, but when they supped alone he could just be. He could sit with her, make her smile on the days she forgot how.

Such was their distraction that neither remembered to count the days. He’d read that omega heats were cyclical. Jon disparaged it and longed for it in one. When he recalled Sansa’s suffering, though, he prayed for another way.

And what might it do to him? Nothing scared him so much as her scent in heat. He’d nearly lost himself in desire, nearly lost everything when Sansa couldn’t trust him. What if he couldn’t withstand it this time?

Was it the gods’ great joke? Would he dedicate himself to her safety only to be the one to harm her? He would rather fall on his sword. Her next heat would, surely, be the greatest trial of their friendship.

Sansa was right. The gods loved testing them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter.


	9. Synthesis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What you've all been waiting for. That's it, that's the chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, a round of applause to you all for making it to this point. The support I've received from this community has been incredible. I'm surprised to keep getting comments with all the teasing I've done, honestly.  
> So, without further ado

They had five days until Jon rode south. Sansa hated the thought of his leaving without knowing, but she’d been so ashamed of herself. Failing her people was not an option. Anything else fell to the wayside.

She woke feeling strange, dizzy. It caused enough trouble that she broke her fast in her solar that morning. In her office, Jon tapped his finger against the desk as he read. The sound irritated her more than it should. Sansa abandoned her own reading to stare at his fidgeting. His finger stopped, and she looked up into those dark eyes. They seemed as familiar as her own hands at this point.

“Sorry,” he said.

She shook her head, dismissing it. Jon left for the training yard soon after that. She managed to write four lines in peace before the dizziness returned. She tried putting her head down, but her skin felt too tight.

Sansa fought her ailment as best she could. She eventually grew too warm, and had to open the window. The breeze dried her sweat, cooled her fever. It offered endless comfort. Tickled her mind and _begged_ her to go outside.

Rather than quit her office, she looked out the window. Below, roughly a dozen people sparred. Some men were down to their undershirts in the heat of exertion. Brienne, with her light hair, was easy to spot. Jon, too. She’d know his stature anywhere. He swung a sword over his head, his arms swift and strong.

Another cool breeze, and it was there. Everything she needed. What would make them both stronger for the coming battle. It was as her father had always said. The pack survives.

The gods were urging them, the last of the Starks, to form a pack.

The resin and fig scent washed over her again. She had an instant to bask in it before Jon froze. He turned, as if led by the nose. He opened his eyes.

Sansa knew she would submit to Jon. She knew it a moon ago. With the need for her line to continue, she had a decent excuse. Looking at him, she knew it wasn’t obligation to the North or religious devotion that urged her on. It was Jon. His old promise rung in her ears.

_When you come to me, sweet cousin…_

***

Sweetness. Sharp and addicting, subtle enough to keep him searching for it. Jon’s head swam, reminding him strangely of spiced rum. It was that same liquid warmth that stuck his hairs on end. He shut his eyes, tried to maintain his composure. His nose turned to the side, upward. When he opened his eyes she stared back.

Sansa shut her window. Jon’s sword touched the ground as he stared after her. _Go to her_ , instinct whispered. Reason insisted he wait. She’d always sent for him in the past, for propriety’s sake, and he expected she would do the same now.

They all knew. Every squire, servant, and apprentice fell into a buzzing hush. Their eyes sought him out then danced away. It was the rumors which caused it, their anticipation. His breaking point approached, and when he succumbed to it the hush in the courtyard would give way to more gossip.

Jon held out long as he could, but her scent never failed to overwhelm him. The thought of sleeping in the stables flickered through his mind, but his legs were too quick. He breathed through his mouth, could nearly taste her on the air.

Sansa would be indisposed with her heat. He decided to wait in his guest chambers. If she had need of him, he would be just around the corner. The walk wound on. He took the long path in an attempt to avoid her trail.

Closer to his quarters, she still lingered on his tongue. Jon approached his door and chanced a breath through his nose, trusting the walls that separated them to dull her scent.

Never had being wrong provided such instant relief.

Blood and honey drew him inside his own chambers. The door shut and he was safe with his sweet cousin, the pillow he slept on stuffed between her legs.

Sansa threw the pillow away, rolled onto her back as if to display herself. A flush ran from her face to her breastbone, sweat setting her bare skin aglow. All the time he’d imagined it, and those fantasies still couldn’t compare to the sight of her. Her voice held no shame and much certainty when she spoke.

“I’ve come to you.”

So she had. Jon barred the door.

With each step toward her those long legs spread wider. His breeches followed his boots to the floor, his jerkin next. When Jon stood naked she slipped a hand beneath her copper curls to her center. The image of Sansa’s delicate fingers against her sex put him in a trance. She was pretty pink all over, her scent growing thicker as desire dripped from her folds to soak into his furs.

Jon fell to his knees on the bed, then to his elbows so he caged her in. Sansa’s slick-warm touch explored his length. Her blue eyes went wide, a little gasp escaping her lips as she found his knot.

“Will it fit?”

Only the gods knew. He leaned in close, fixed her with a solemn look.

“You must tell me if it doesn’t feel good.”

“I will,” she promised.

Three pulls on her scent. That was the boundary of their restraint, limited by longing. Sansa brought his tip to her entrance. His cock twitched from the heat of her. Teeth worrying her bottom lip, she tilted her hips.

Her limbs curled around him as he stretched her open. It was a full body embrace, hers possessing his. When the final inch disappeared inside of her, they stilled.

She squeezed him so tightly he could hardly catch breath. He sunk down onto her so she was pinned, rested his face in her hair. The silk shone red even in the dim room. Her nails ran over his scalp, freeing his hair of its cord. She panted in his ear.

Jon was humbled and exalted in one, too overcome for words. He kissed the side of her neck. When her arms loosened he retrieved her wrist, brought that hand between them.

They shared an unbroken gaze as he sucked one slick coated finger after the other into his mouth. The taste _,_ _her_ taste, condemned him. No wine cake or cream would ever satisfy after this. He groaned at the thought of spreading her open at the head table, to finish every meal with her cunt.

“Jon, Jon, _Jon._ ”

His name slipped past her lips in a steady stream, her serenity falling away with each breath. A whimper made his heart swell with sympathy. He caught her face between his palms.

“I know, I know.”

Tendrils of hair stuck to her temples. He brushed them away, rubbed circles there. Some of the tension eased from her body, but that line was still etched between her brows. He kissed it.

“Peace, my love. Your pleasure is mine.” She seemed to melt around him. “Will you say it for me?”

“My pleasure is yours,” she repeated.

“Good girl,” he whispered. “Let me claim it, now.”

A disc of black overtook the blue in her eyes. “Yes, alpha.”

Now that he was touching her he didn’t think he could stop. He swept a thumb over the rosy tip of her breast, felt her flutter around his cock. His lips trailed comfort over her cheekbone and down to her soft mouth. She sighed into the kiss, laying perfectly still as he used his free hand to brush through her hair. He curled his fingers at her nape and gave the roots a gentle tug.

Sansa’s neck bent forward in compliance. He pressed his lips to it, sucking tender blooms into her flesh. Her head fell back further as she exposed more of her throat to him. He licked a stripe to her jaw, nuzzled into the hollow beneath her ear.

“Such a good girl, letting your alpha savor you.”

Before she could respond he kissed her jaw, her collarbone, her nipples. He tugged one between his teeth and laved it with his tongue, pulling a soft cry from her. It was one of the dozen sounds he newly cherished.

Her breath hitched, cunt pulsing around him now. She was right on the edge.

“You would let me stay like this forever, wouldn’t you?”

Her lips parted. “Yes.”

He kissed her earlobe. “Keep me buried inside your perfect little cunt?”

“ _Yes._ ”

Jon pinched her nipple between his fingers, wringing the pleasure from her body. Her hips rolled into him and stole his next words. The friction snapped his resolve. One thrust and Sansa wept her relief.

“That’s it, love. Tell me.”

She did, cries rising as he filled her again and again. The holy music crescendoed as warmth gushed from her core. Sansa squeezed him closer, the spasms of her peak continuing long after she’d fallen silent. He kept an even pace as they both soaked in her come.

“Please.” Barely audible.

He fought a smile. “Please what? Vulgar words have their place, my lady.”

Sansa managed to pout even while he fucked her, reaching up to trace his lips. He dropped a kiss to her mouth, shifted so he could speak in her ear.

“You needn’t be shy of me.”

She gripped his curls and pulled him into another kiss, this one deeper than the last. Sansa opened her mouth to him and he finally got to bite that full lip of hers. She moaned into his mouth, filling him with bliss.

The swell of his knot grew painful. His little cousin fit him so snugly that he couldn’t finish, not the way she wanted. His need to protect his omega superseded the need to knot her. Jon pulled her legs from around his waist and pushed them up, spread them wide. He slowed his thrusts, pressed his thumb to her pearl. When he stilled again, seated deep inside her, she whined.

“Shhh.”

He eased the folds where she was stretched open, gripping him so tight. He rubbed her with slick until he could slip his finger inside. She raked her nails over his chest.

“How does that feel?” he murmured.

“Full,” she whispered, eyes unfocused. “ _So full._ ”

Satisfied, he pulled his finger free. Her breaths came out frantic. He cupped the back of Sansa’s thighs and pinned her knees to the bed, holding her open. She hummed her pleasure.

He gazed down at his cousin, her skin radiant with fever. In the cradle of his omega’s hips, he was finally home. He never wanted to leave this sacred place.

“You are so lovely,” he said, “I can scarcely bear to look at you.”

She reached for one of his hands and laced their fingers together. Jon kissed her eyelids before he pulled his hips back slowly, relishing the way her mouth fell open. When he rammed back inside she groaned, her most wanton sound yet. Her eyes opened, so hungry he thought she might devour him.

“Mine.”

“Yes, _yes._ ”

The castle could fall around them and he wouldn’t stop filling her. Again, faster, snapping his hips in a way that made her squeal.

“Mine. _Mine._ ” He claimed her with every thrust.

Sansa turned her head to the side, stretched her neck out for him. He grazed his teeth along the soft column, coming to burrow in the juncture of her shoulder. The thick scent of her pleasure devastated Jon’s reason. He sunk his teeth into her flesh.

Fingers twisted in the roots of his hair, holding him in place. Deeper, harder, making her scream. Finally, _finally_ , shoved his knot inside her. Jon fell away, was only sensation as he flooded her womb. Sansa shook, coming again, milking his cock. He’d never felt like this—like he was more than mortal.

It could have been minutes or hours that he laid still, buried inside her. He relaxed his jaw, concerned for the bite. Sansa released her grip on his curls just as her legs fell limp. She mumbled something so quietly he couldn’t make it out.

“Hmm?”

She breathed deeply. “I love you, Jon.”

The words were gone and he wanted her to say them again, a hundred times over so he could memorize the sound. His chest ached. Throat closing up. He tried to contain it, but the tenderness worked its way through his limbs, made him shudder around her.

“You love me?” he rasped.

“Mmm.”

He kissed the red mark he’d made, soothing it with his tongue. Sansa sighed long and low, her cunny quivering around him again. He pressed his lips to her ear and murmured all his longing, all the love he bore her. When he lifted to see her face she wore a sleepy, giddy smile. For all his travels, no sight could compare.

“I wish I had more candles.”

Sansa’s laugh moved through him. “Should I tell the steward?”

“I meant now,” he intoned. “To see you better.”

Even in the dark he could detect her blush. He stroked his knuckles along her cheekbones, encouraging the warmth to spread.

“Next time we can use my chambers,” she said.

“Next time will be right here.”

He ran his fingers along the inside of her thighs, collecting her wetness. Each fingertip shined with slick. He cleaned one, then another, her flavor bursting on his tongue. She moaned when his knot grew inside her.

“We’ll never leave this bed if you don’t stop,” she said, breathless.

Half his mouth stretched into a crooked grin. “That’s the idea.” He brought his third finger to her lips. “Taste.”

She obeyed him like a zealot, sucking the digit into her mouth. He praised her endlessly, calling her his good girl, his precious girl, as he scraped his nails along her scalp. Little chirps of contentment came from her throat.

No one would hurt her. Jon would sooner drink Viserys’ blood than let him lay a finger upon his mate.

***

Sansa found shelter in Jon’s arms. Every touch, every kiss, was a synthesis. Peace and annihilation, pleasure and agony. She could dissolve into him, think of nothing but the feel of him making her whole.

If the gods were good his seed would take root. She would give her mate a child, make their pack stronger. The thought stayed with her, though she made no mention of it. Jon didn’t need such dreams to cloud his mind, not when he would leave soon.

But she couldn’t bear to think of that. Right now, caught beneath him, all thought of separation was intolerable. He was still inside her, keeping her full for hours. He no longer felt like another person, but merely an extension of herself. She couldn’t recall how to disentangle their bodies, didn’t care to.

Her center throbbed with the force of their coupling, but it meant nothing to the ecstasy of being complete. Jon learned the pleasures of her body better than she, touching her in places she hadn’t thought of. He pressed such words into her skin, making her heart ache.

Cousin, alpha…husband, if he wished it. He’d already marked her, but she wasn’t sure he understood the significance of it yet.

She felt his mouth on her again, curled one of his locks around her finger. His room was filled with the scent of their mating, a rich and intoxicating fragrance.

“ _Jon._ ”

“Is that good, my love?”

He was sucking purple blossoms into the underside of her breasts. She nodded. He gave her that heartbreaking smile, so pure it could wash her sins away. _Don’t stop,_ she tried to say.

A timid hand knocked on his door. She watched his expression harden, turn fearsome. His arms pulled her closer, so strong as to expel her every fear.

“Leave.”

Over his shoulder, she saw a scroll slide under the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you wanted more from Sansa's POV don't worry, her heat isn't over yet ;)


End file.
